It was clear which house was the one they were after, even if Harry hadn't been told that it was three houses down from his family home. Like the Potter cottage, it was made from the local limestone, and also like the cottage, it was fronted by a small garden that was unkempt and overgrown. Unlike the houses down the rest of the street, there was no festive pumpkin on the doorstep.
The Godric's Hollow residents had returned to their vigil outside the ruined cottage, their soft voices growing fainter as Hermione and Harry continued on their quest, both wearing pensive expressions. Once they reached the Bagshot residence, Harry pointed out to her the dim glow of candle light visible through the otherwise rather dark windows. A sign of life, at least.
"What do you think we should do?" Harry whispered to her, suddenly extremely nervous. "I want to believe that she's lucid enough to talk to, but if it's true what they said about her…"
"I don't know, Harry, but it really is sad if that's the case. Such a brilliant mind…" Her face was pinched. "The last thing we want to do is cause her any distress."
"If Dumbledore entrusted the sword to her care, she must have been well enough."
"If he did," Hermione emphasised the word, giving Harry a long look. "We don't have to go in if you think it's not worth it. We… achieved something at least. You got to pay your respects and… start a blood feud with the most powerful dark wizard alive."
Harry gave a soft laugh at how matter-of-factly she said that. "I expect you'll have words with me about that later."
"You are correct," she said, then nodded down at his bandaged hand. "Do you want some dittany on that?"
"No, it's fine." He said, waving it off.
Hermione nodded and gestured at the cottage. "Well?"
"Let's… try at least. If she is too confused, we can leave." He said, steeling himself and pushing the gate. It squeaked loudly, causing him to wince. They stepped onto the gravel path, looking around at the thorny rose bushes that were in desperate need of taming. Harry thought about what the residents had said about her not leaving the house much. The pair of them approached the front door, seeing the bronze number '10' on the wood. Like most of the houses in Godric's Hollow, her front door was brightly coloured, even if the paint was peeling a little. It was a light shade of blue. Harry reached out, looking around them, and grabbed the knocker.
"Here goes," he said, and knocked loudly on the door. They held their breaths, listening, waiting for signs of life in the house in response.
"Who is calling at this hour?"
Harry opened his mouth, shocked by the wavery, elderly voice. Hermione was gripping his arm, breathing heavily. Both he and Hermione jumped when they heard a clatter from within and a thud. He shared an alarmed look with Hermione. They waited for a moment and Harry prepared to tell Hermione that they should leave, then he heard the voice again.
"Pfft, those young whipper-snappers, bothering old Bathilda on Halloween." Realising that they were still invisible, Harry pulled the cloak off him just as the door clicked open and he caught sight of a very small lady peering through the gap, her eyes wide, cloudy with cataracts.
She peered up at Harry, looking right at him, then she pushed the door open fully and startled Harry completely by reaching for his arm and pulling him inside the house. Utterly shocked, Harry stumbled into the threshold. He heard Hermione's horrified gasp behind him as she followed, trying to help.
"It's far too dangerous to be loitering out on doorsteps. I thought Albus talked your ear off about leaving the house, James."
Before Harry could even speak, she had him by the wrist, pulling him into the house. He turned, looking back at the doorway where Hermione was still invisible. At a loss at what to do, Harry let the old woman lead him into the house like he was a naughty child. He could feel Hermione's bafflement behind him and heard the soft shutting of the door as she followed him in.
"P-Professor Bagshot? I- I'm not James," Harry spluttered as he was tugged around into a darkened sitting room. She didn't appear to hear him and instead, she released him and bustled about the sitting room.
He felt Hermione's hand brushing against his arm to show him that she was behind him.
"Hermione… she thinks I'm my dad," he whispered.
Bathilda cleared a seat, moving a pile of parchment with a quill resting on top to a rather unstable stack of books. Harry looked around, his vision adjusting to the gloom. It looked terribly dark and dingy. A few candles lit the room, showing that the stack was one of many. Books seemed to be piled up against every available piece of wall space. It didn't scream homely. He saw some chairs and a glass-topped coffee table.
"You know the rules, young Potter," Bathilda said, now turning back to him, her cloudy eyes squinting up. Her tone reminded him now very strongly of Professor McGonagall. Instead of trying to correct her mistake, he gasped out.
"I do?"
"Conversations in my house are never had without a cup of tea. Sit down, young man, and let old Bathilda get us a pot and you can tell me why you risked Lily's ire coming here."
She marched off on tiny legs before he could get a word in edgeways. For such a small thing, she moved fast. Harry stood, swaying a little, dazed.
"Harry, look at this." Hermione's whisper came from behind. He jumped violently, turning around. At that, he turned, seeing Hermione's disembodied arm behind him, pointing at one of the many books in the room. Unlike the dusty tomes piled up in towers, this book was brand-new and gleaming. The cover was garish and bright. The golden letters were unmistakable. The Life and Times of Albus Dumbledore.
But Hermione wasn't pointing at the book, but rather the note in acid green ink left on the cover.
'Dear Batty, Thanks for your help. Here's a copy of the book, hope you like it. You said everything, even if you don't remember it. Rita.'
Fierce hatred cracked through Harry as he understood. Bathilda had spilled the beans on Dumbledore to Rita Skeeter and it sounded like the malicious journalist had tampered with her memory. It was no wonder she was confused about who Harry was.
"That evil woman… is nothing sacred to her?" Hermione hissed from under the cloak. "She sabotaged one of the greatest minds of our times just for book sales."
She took the book from the table. "What are you doing?" Harry whispered. "Actually, more importantly, what am I doing? I can't pretend to be my dad."
"She's very old, Harry. Not only has she been obliviated, but she's likely going senile as well."
"I can't lie to her. It's not right when she's already confused," he said, biting at his lip, looking over to where the little old lady had disappeared.
"No," Hermione agreed with him. She pulled the Invisibility Cloak off herself and handed it over to him. He stuffed it under his jumper quickly. Bathilda was back, carrying a tray with a teapot and cups. She didn't look very stable.
"I'll help with that," Harry said at once before there was tea everywhere. He hurried over to the tiny woman, taking the tray from her.
"Set it down over there, dear," she told him when he took it. At her lack of reaction, he guessed that this would have been something his father would have done. He couldn't help but feel a warm glow at the thought. He carried the tray to the coffee table, glancing back at Hermione, his face warming. Bathilda followed him as he set it down.
It was clear that she was very old. Her body was hunched over on itself, her form clad in a woolen knitted cardigan, thrown over dark green robes. Her carpet slippers poked out from underneath. Her hair was thin and grey, her scalp visible, and her face was riddled with liver spots. All in all, she was probably the oldest person Harry had met. If she had truly known Dumbledore's parents, then she had to be nearly 200. He knew witches and wizards lived far longer than muggles, but even so, her age was impressive.
"Take a seat, James." She pointed to the chair. She turned and then spotted Hermione standing in the dark. She squinted over. "Who's that there? Lily?"
Harry swallowed at the mention of his mother and he turned, gently putting his hand on the elderly woman's shoulder. She turned at the touch, blinking owlishly at him. He was surprised that she could see anything at all. Her cataracts had left her pupils milky, her irises a faded blue.
"Bath- Bathilda," Harry thought it might be best to call her by her first name, "I'm not James Potter." She blinked, her lined forehead creasing as she frowned. "I'm his son, Harry."
Bathilda was so small, she had to crane her head up to look at him. He realised that she likely couldn't see his face, so he sunk down to his knees, surprising her. She gave a little gasp and blinked at him, trying to see him clearly.
"I'm told I look a lot like my dad," he said to her, "but I have my mum's eyes."
To his great relief, a spark of recognition flared in her confused eyes. She shuffled up to him. He got a waft of the scent of her. Her clothes smelt damp with a hint of lavender. She placed her hands on either side of his face.
"Over there, is Hermione. She's my closest friend."
Bathilda turned to look at Hermione, who took the cue to come over to Bathilda.
"Hello, Professor Bagshot," she greeted warmly, "it's an honour to meet you."
"I'm so sorry to intrude on you like this," Harry said and Bathilda slowly looked back over at him, her eyes wide. "I'm endangering you terribly but we don't have much of a choice."
Her gaze roved around his face and her hands pressed against his cheeks, tilting his head upwards so they were eye-to-eye.
The intrusion was faint, but he knew it for what it was. Legilimency. She stared at him silently, then she lifted one of her hands away from his cheek and brought it up to his forehead, brushing aside his fringe. When her finger touched his scar, he flinched at the contact, the cursed skin hyper-sensitive. Her gaze returned to his eyes and tears brimmed in her old eyes.
"Oh, my boy…" she said softly, "I'm so sorry. Your parents… they were such good people. You do look so much like your father… I thought…" She sighed, dropping her hands from his face. "Old age is a cruel fate. My mind is not what it used to be."
He saw her swaying, her pale face going paler. She looked faint. Alarmed, Harry stood up and steadied her under his elbows. Hermione came over.
"Professor, please sit down." She said, concerned. "I'll sort out the tea, Harry." She looked at Harry, directing him with her eyes alone. He guided Bathilda over to one of the seats.
"I imagine it's a bit of a shock," he said as she sat down. He felt her shaking in his hold. She gave a sigh. "I know… it's been a long time. You haven't seen me since I was a baby." He swallowed nervously. He went to help Hermione but Bathilda's hand snapped out and took his wrist. He stopped. Bathilda gave him a teary smile.
"You've grown up to be a handsome young man," she told him. Harry gave a shocked laugh.
"Well, I don't know about that."
"You were such a beautiful baby," she said softly, then she cackled, "and a rascal. I've never known a baby to get into so much trouble."
"Sounds like you," Hermione said. "Do you take milk and sugar, professor?"
"Milk and one, my dear," Bathilda said, her eyes not leaving Harry's face. "You are going to need to be patient with old Bathilda. My memory… it comes and goes." He heard Hermione's angry huff, knowing that she was thinking about a certain beetle animagus.
"I hope at least you know why it's dangerous for me to be in your home," Harry said carefully, "especially today of all days. It's… Halloween."
Understanding dawned on her aged face, quickly followed by a grieved look.
"Oh, my boy… you choose an inauspicious time to return home." Her words lanced through him.
"I know," Harry extracted his wrist from her grip and moved back just as Hermione came over with Bathilda's tea. "I wouldn't have come if I had no choice. We need help. I know… what I'm asking. I bring danger here with me… to your home."
Bathilda raised her hands to take the saucer that Hermione extended her way, a grateful smile ghosting on her thin lips. Hermione shot Harry a supportive, warm smile and went back to the tea set.
"Such dark tidings indeed." Bathilda said quietly. "I do not know what help I can be. These old bones have seen better days, my boy."
Harry was beginning to suspect that Bathilda had nothing to do with Dumbledore's plans and he had the feeling that Hermione was coming to the same conclusion.
"I understand if you would rather be left in peace," Harry said quietly.
"Oh, my dear boy, of course, I will help."
Harry breathed out a sigh of relief. He gave her a genuine smile.
"Thank you."
"Now please, make yourself at home, Harry, and tell me why you've come here," she told him, gesturing to the seat next to her. He caught Hermione's smile as he settled down next to her.
Hermione handed Harry a cup of tea. He took it, thanking her. He was aware that she was letting him lead the conversation, a polite observer. She knew what it meant to him to be talking to someone who knew his family as well as she did.
He studied the tea in his hands, wondering where he should even begin. He decided to lead right with the reason why they were there. He looked up at her, seeing her cloudy eyes regarding him patiently.
"We thought, well, we hoped, that Dumbledore left something with you for safekeeping for me to find." He said slowly, carefully. He caught a flash of alarm on Hermione's face as she settled down in the seat opposite him. She gave him a warning look and then he remembered that Rita Skeeter had tampered with Bathilda's memory while digging for dirt on Dumbledore. He could unwillingly cause her distress.
Thankfully, there was no hint of distress on the old lady's face, only mild confusion.
"Dumbledore?" She repeated the name. "I assume you mean Albus, not Aberforth?" He glanced at Hermione before nodding. "No. He didn't, though I am curious what would lead you to assume that he did. What is it that you thought he would leave here?"
Harry met Hermione's look and saw her nod.
"The Sword of Godric Gryffindor."
His response was met with silence. Bathilda just stared at him. He figured that it would help if he explained a little more of their reasoning.
"Du- Professor Dumbledore left the Sword to me in his Will," Harry explained, causing her eyes to widen, "but the Ministry stepped in and refused to hand it over. We… found out that the Sword had been swapped for a fake so we have been searching for the real sword. As this is the birthplace of Gryffindor, we thought… it might be worth a look."
Now that Harry said it out loud, it did sound rather stupid. Why hide something so valuable in such an obvious place? Somewhere that would be obvious for Harry himself to return to? It could well have been a trap. It still could be.
Bathilda lifted her cup to her lips and took a sip of her tea, studying Harry.
"I do not know where the sword is. Albus did not leave such a priceless relic with me. He has not stepped foot in this house for many, many years. His brother visits from time to time, but Albus…" She lowered her cup. "I believe the last time he came to Godric's Hollow was to visit you and your parents when you were a little babe."
Harry let the disappointment crash over him. No sword. They were back where they started. He ran his fingers around the brim of his teacup. Frustration burned in his gut, but he made himself focus instead on where he was and who he was with. He may not have the means to destroy the horcrux, but he had reunited with someone from his past, someone close to family. He had made his peace with his parents. The grief was still like a stone in his belly, his face still raw from where the tears had burned his skin when he cried for his loss. He turned his hand over, studying the bandage, feeling the cut underneath stinging.
"My boy, I am sorry that your visit has been unfruitful. As wonderful as it is to see you all grown-up… I imagine you must be disappointed that you came here for naught."
He lifted his gaze, finding Bathilda watching him with tenderness that he rarely saw being shown in his direction. It eased the burn of his frustration. He was not angry at her, after all. His anger was split now in two directions. Albus Dumbledore and Lord Voldemort.
"I am curious why you believed Albus would entrust the sword to me," she said in her wavery voice, "I am an old weary Ravenclaw with too many books, not a champion of Godric Gryffindor's."
"We're grasping at straws really," Harry admitted, "I heard that Dumbledore was from here and made the connection with Gryffindor and… myself. I found a letter that my mum wrote to Sirius and it mentioned you… so I thought maybe I could speak to you." His mouth quirked up a little in the corner. "It said that you were at our house for my birthday tea."
Bathilda's face lit up and she gave a cackle. "You were such a menace. What that man was thinking, giving a one-year-old a broom, I have no idea."
Harry's eyes were wide and he wished, so desperately wished, that he could remember it too. Her eyes were understanding as she looked at him, sighing sadly.
"They knew, of course, the danger they were in, but they tried so hard to never let it show how scared they really were. You were a very happy baby and they loved you so very much."
Tears returned then. He drew in a sharp breath and looked down.
"I'm so sorry, Harry, for your loss," her voice was quiet. No one had ever given him their condolences for his parents before. For his life in general. Pain ached in his chest at her words and he gave a shuddering gasp, tears knocking loose from his eyes.
"Sorry," he said, glancing up at her as he wiped at his face, "just, no one's ever said that to me before."
Bathilda reached over and patted his hand, consoling him rather clumsily.
"It's quite alright." She then saw the bandage around his hand. "Oh dear, are you injured?"
"It's nothing. Just a… scratch," Harry mumbled.
Bathilda gave a wavery laugh. "Your father was just the same. Got himself up to all sorts of mischief as a lad. He got away with it too. Fleamont and Euphemia spoiled him rotten."
It took Harry a moment to register the names. He had never heard of them before. It struck him.
"My... grandparents were called Fleamont and Euphemia?" Harry asked hoarsely.
"Oh my dear boy, did you not know?" She sighed sadly. "Yes, they were. They lived in the same house as you did. James inherited the cottage from them when they passed away. He could have easily bought a larger house but he refused. He said that you had plenty of room and it's right that a Potter should always live in Godric's Hollow."
Harry's heart was racing. The sword was forgotten. She knew his family. Not just his parents, but his extended family. He felt giddy, reeling from the knowledge that was being so effortlessly delivered his way.
Bathilda looked at him for a moment. "Do you truly not know about your family and where you come from?"
He shook his head. "No. I've never really… had the time to ask about them. I only really know that my dad was a pureblood and I'm the first half-blood Potter."
Bathilda cackled at that. "Oh yes. Quite the scandal that was, breaking a pureblood line as ancient as the Potter line." Harry was desperate for more knowledge, but he was all too aware that his desire was selfish. He glanced across at Hermione, but she gave him a supportive nod.
"My family is that old?"
"If you wished, you could trace back your heritage all the way back to the Peverell line and that, Harry, not many of the most tenacious purebloods can do."
Harry could see the old, worn-out gravestone that they had found earlier in his mind with the symbol and the name, Ignotus Peverell. He saw Hermione's eyes light up as she made the connection as well.
"The… Peverell line?" Harry asked. "I'm sorry, but I'm not familiar with the name."
Bathilda frowned at him. "What in Merlin's name is Binns teaching at that school?" She shook her head. "The three brothers, Antioch, Cadmus and Ignotus Peverell, were incredibly talented wizards of extraordinary ability. They were the known inventors of the Deathly Hallows… unless, you believe Beedle's account of the tale and that they were given the Hallows by Death himself."
Hermione choked on her tea. Bathilda looked over to her.
"Are you alright, dear?"
"Yes, sorry," Hermione cleared her throat, "Are… are you saying that the Tale of the Three Brothers is real?"
Harry felt a wave of cold shock go through him. The grave they had found earlier, with the symbol… it had not only been related to the Tale, but was the actual resting place of one of the brothers in the story. His hairs stood on end.
And I'm related to him!
"Not in so much as it was inspired by the Peverell brothers' achievements, though many would disagree. Some believe that they did indeed meet Death and received three gifts for their cunning and that, in finding the Hallows, they themselves will become the Master of Death. It is a dangerous belief and has led many a wizard astray." Her voice turned a little wavery at that.
Harry met Hermione's look and he could see her eyes were as wide as his own. Hermione then stood up, putting her cup and saucer on the table. She reached into her beaded bag and rummaged inside. She drew out the copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard. Coming up to Bathilda, she flicked through the pages and came to the title page of the tale under discussion.
"Professor… does… does this symbol have anything to do with the Peverells?" She asked. Bathilda peered down at the book.
"Oh my dear, I need my glasses." She fished around at the top of her dark robes, finding spectacles that she had hanging around her neck with a chain. She perched them on her nose and looked. She gave a gasp, nearly throwing her cup of tea. Hermione hurriedly took the tea from her before she spilled it.
"How… how did you come across this book?" Bathilda demanded, taking the tome from Hermione, ignoring how she had confiscated her tea. Hermione looked at Harry, asking for help.
"Pr-Professor Dumbledore left it to me in his Will," Hermione said faintly, a little frightened. Bathilda peered over her glasses sternly.
"Oh that pesky Dumbledore. I have been wondering for all these years where my copy ended up. I should have known. He and Gellert were so obsessed…" Her voice trailed off as her eyes took on a haunted look. She then peered down at the book.
"To answer your question, dear, yes, this symbol very much has something to do with the Peverells. It symbolises the Hallows. The triangle is the Cloak, the circle the Stone and the line is the wand. Those who believe themselves on the quest to unite the Hallows wear the symbol to show themselves to other believers. Rather daft really, considering that most believers end up killing each other but there you have it."
Harry stood up, now putting his cup of tea down. He approached them, looking down at the symbol. It all fell into place.
But why would Dumbledore want them to know about the Hallows? They were hunting Horcruxes, not some macabre legend.
I'm descended from them.
Like a bolt of lightning, the realisation hit Harry. Numbly, he tugged his Invisibility Cloak free from where he had stuffed it under his jumper. The silvery folds rolled over his hands, cold and light. He stepped up to Bathilda and she looked over at him.
"Bathilda… Is this the Cloak?" He asked her quietly. "It was… given to me by Dumbledore. It belonged to my father."
The little lady shuffled off her seat, pushing the book back to Hermione, who mutely took it without complaint. Bathilda bustled up to him, her eyes narrowed on the cloak in his hands. She took it from him, murmuring under her breath. She then gave a gasp when she draped it over her hand and it vanished.
"I never thought I would see the day…" She said softly, handing it back to Harry. "Yes, my dear boy, that is Ignotus's Hallow. The Potter Hallow. It has been handed down, father to son, for over a thousand years. And now, it is yours, the last surviving Potter."
To say that Harry was emotionally exhausted and overwhelmed by everything that had happened in the last couple of hours would have been an understatement. Not long after Bathilda finally helped them connect the dots between the clues that Dumbledore had left them, she went to clear the tea away and left, saying something about pumpkin pie.
Hermione immediately came to Harry's side, her eyes wide, face white with shock. He gave her a meaningful look.
"This is so much to take in," Hermione said breathlessly, "these Hallows. I've never heard of them before. And your cloak! Harry, it's over a thousand years old!"
"I know… I can't wrap my head around it," he rubbed his hand through his hair, "what Bathilda said about that symbol being a way for believers to show themselves. Grindelwald and Xenophilius Lovegood must be believers. That's the link we're looking for."
"She mentioned Gellert. Did you hear that?" Hermione said under her breath. "It sounds like… him and Dumbledore knew each other." Harry shot her a firm look.
"That sounds like just the sort of scandalous information Skeeter would be eager to uncover," he said angrily. He eyed Hermione's bag, recalling the book and the note.
"I agree and… I think we shouldn't pry too much into it. Whatever she said to Rita, it's likely blocked behind a memory charm anyway and we don't want to confuse her. We know about these Hallows… though what importance they serve, I don't know."
"What were the other two?" Harry asked her, looking down at the cloak in his hands.
"The wand and the stone," Hermione replied at once. "The wand… it feels familiar to me. I've read about infamous wands before. The Wand of Destiny, The Deathstick… perhaps this is one of them."
"You have to admit, a super-powered wand does sound handy," Harry said pointedly.
"In the story, the brother is murdered over it," Hermione said quietly, "that… doesn't feel like the sort of wand you want to be wielding."
"I've been hiding under Death's cloak for the past seven years…"
"That part is fiction," Hermione assured him, "Bathilda said as much."
Harry didn't want to argue. Hermione was a lot more skeptical than he was when it came to the more outlandish myths of the Magical world. They both accepted that dragons, unicorns, elves and goblins were real rather easily when they both first learned about magic. Apparently believing that Death might be a metaphysical being was a stretch too far.
Bathilda returned, now carrying a tray with three plates, each sporting a slice of pie.
"I can't be playing host to such august company without feeding you," she said with a teasing laugh. "I always make this for Halloween, though usually it's just me and Marbles."
"Marbles?" Harry asked, alarmed, looking around for another person.
"My cat," she told him, "it's an old joke. He's very elusive and hides, so whenever I can't find him, I can say that 'I've lost my Marbles'."
Harry stared at the old woman, remembering what his mother had written about her being 'a funny old thing'. He could see why.
He eyed the pie, warmed by her hospitality, but his nerves were starting to get the better of him. As the shock of the discovery behind the symbol and the Hallows wore off, he was realising just how dangerous it was for him to be out in the open so close to the site where he had unwillingly destroyed Voldemort's body sixteen years ago. Guilt surged through him at the thought of the danger he was putting Bathilda in. If anyone came, any Death Eaters or Aurors, and saw him, he didn't want to think what they would do to the old lady. They had tortured the Wedding guests for information about his whereabouts. It was likely that they would do a lot worse to her.
"I really don't want to impose on you any longer than I have to," Harry insisted, moving to intercept her. "We should leave. It's not safe for you." She rattled to a halt, scoffing at him.
"My boy, do you think that in all my years, I did not learn how to protect my hearth and home from unwanted intruders? If it puts your mind at ease, I can activate the fidelius runes, though it may be a little suspicious when my house vanishes. I haven't done it in a few years."
"There are runes for the fidelius charm?" Hermione asked, astonished. Harry smiled at her thirst for knowledge, amused.
"Yes, dear, though I inscribed them many moons ago. I'm sure I wrote down the theory somewhere in one of my journals…" Bathilda put down the tray and then thrust a plate at Harry's stomach, nearly winding him. He took it before she could inflict any more bodily harm in her determination to feed him.
Protests subdued, Harry sat back down and ate his slice of pie. Hermione watched, enrapt, as Bathilda moved around the room, clearing off spaces to trace her wand over where there were patterns carved into the brickwork. As she did, the lines glowed, activating the magic placed in the runes. Harry had never seen runecrafting himself, but he knew it was ancient magic. It wasn't surprising that the famous historian had knowledge of the craft. She then went to move about the house, muttering to herself, as she searched for the runes.
"Harry, if I learn the theory behind these runes, we could have a more permanent hideout. Runes are so much more powerful than charms," she said to Harry breathlessly. He swallowed a mouthful of pie, blinking at her. He hadn't realised how hungry he was until he was down to the last crumb.
"Have you seen how many books there are? I doubt they are catalogued." He put his plate down on the table. "You should eat the pie. It's really good."
Bathilda returned with more tea. Harry felt very awkward at her fussing around at her age. He got up this time to make the tea, insisting firmly that he didn't mind. He saw Hermione's amused look at his valiant protests. Bathilda went to her seat and sat down.
She watched Harry with her rheumy eyes as he busied himself with the tea, flushing a little as the two women watched him.
"I must say, dear, you have him well-trained," Bathilda said suddenly to Hermione. Harry's face burned as he stirred in her milk. Hermione's eyes glittered with mirth.
"I can't take credit for this. It's all Harry," Hermione said, her mouth falling a little when she remembered that his domesticity came from a strict childhood. Red-faced, Harry handed out the cups of tea. When he came to Bathilda, she peered up at him.
"Where have you been all these years, my dear boy?" She asked him. "Did you not once want to see where you were born? To see your parents' resting places?"
He turned from her, going to get his own tea, and went to sit down before answering.
"I was sent to live with my muggle relatives for my protection," he said quietly, "and I stayed there in the summers between school. I don't know why Dumbledore never brought me himself… perhaps he thought it was too dangerous for me."
"That I can believe. Albus often took it upon him to make decisions for the greater good, even at the sacrifice of the happiness of others. I know it is impolite to speak ill of the dead. He would have had your best interests at heart, but sometimes a bit of risk is worth the reward… and it really was not his choice to make."
Harry was stirred by her words. It was refreshing to hear someone stand up for him when it came to Dumbledore.
"I am so greatly overjoyed that I got the chance to see you one last time, my boy. You have been in my thoughts often… when I can remember to have thoughts, that is," she gave him a trembling smile, her eyes tearing up again. "No one so young should have such burdens thrust upon them. It is not down to a teenaged boy to lead a war, much less fight in one."
Harry stared down at his tea, a lump forming in his throat once again. "I know but… it is what it is. I've had a mad man after me since I was born. I'm used to it."
Bathilda gave a weary sigh at that, her fingernails clinking against the china of her cup as she looked over Harry with such sadness and tenderness.
"You poor boy…" she said softly, "now I really cannot let you leave without at least staying the night. The both of you, of course," Bathilda smiled over at Hermione. "I have ample room. My great-nephew used to stay here."
Harry's head snapped up.
"We can't. We're the most wanted witch and wizard in the country."
"And no one is going to find you. The runes are up and I am the secret keeper," her wavery voice turned firm as she peered at him sharply, the shrewd witch that she had once been was returning to battle wills with Harry. Her gaze softened. "It has been sixteen years since you have come home, Harry. You are safe here and I have so much to show and tell you about your family. That which I can remember, at least."
Yearning filled him at that. He wanted nothing more than to have his fill of knowledge about the family that was denied him. He wished to hear about his dad's exploits as a child, what his grandparents were like. Bathilda likely knew Sirius too, from when he moved in with the Potters after he was disowned. But… there was still the mission. Could he really afford to spend time enjoying the hospitality of an old woman while people were out there being terrorised by Death Eaters?
He looked across at Hermione. Really, the decision lay with her. She was the unbiased party, the one who could make the decision for the right reasons. She met his gaze and smiled at him, dipping her head into a nod. She looked over to Bathilda.
"We would love to stay, Professor, but only if it's not too much trouble. We don't wish to be a burden."
"Pish posh, you are no burden. I might be an elderly woman, but I'm still a witch. I insist that you stay and I will not take no for an answer." She said firmly. "The blankets might need some airing, but it'll no doubt be more comfortable than whatever you have been sleeping on while on the run, I daresay."
"If it really isn't too much trouble…" Harry said, trailing off, heart burning with affection towards Hermione. He mouthed across at her 'thank you'.
"It really isn't. Now drink up your tea. It's getting rather late and you both look exhausted. I'll show you around the house so you don't get lost, though if you do get lost, you might find my Marbles."
Before long, both Harry and Hermione were trailing behind Bathilda as she took them around the dark house. It appeared that the sitting room wasn't the only library for her extensive research. There were books everywhere. Even in the bathroom. The house was clearly very old and had the feeling of being close to being decrepit. Every stair creaked and Harry was a little worried about how unstable the balustrade was. Eventually, the little old lady showed them the guest bedroom.
"If you wish to stay up a little longer, make yourselves at home," Bathilda told them in her wavery voice. She then surprised them by taking their hands and squeezing them. "You have brought much joy back to this old soul. It has been so long since I have had company, especially young company." She said, looking at them both with her watery eyes. She then scuttled out of the room and headed to her own bedroom at the end of the rickety hallway.
Once certain that she was gone, Harry numbly took out his wand.
"Muffliato," he said under his breath and closed the door. He turned, finding Hermione standing in the middle of the room. She met his gaze.
"Harry… there's only one bed."
AN: About my characterisation of Bathilda Bagshot: I'm basing it more on what Lily said in her letter to Sirius than what she was like in DH when a flesh sack for Nagini. Having her awkwardly shuffling all over the place was likely more to do with how she had been a walking corpse than anything else. Elderly witches and wizards are more or less depicted as being eccentric and a little mad as if they just stop giving a crap. I love the idea of Bathilda being 'a funny little thing' with her head full of wild stories, fussing over Harry like an overbearing grandmother.
Her mistaking Harry for his dad is more to show that she has her on and off moments when it comes to her memory. She soon comes to her senses. She's also a little stir crazy after living alone with her missing Marbles. I hope you enjoyed her!