Bathilda returned, wielding another bottle of wine. She set them both down on the table. She smiled sweetly over to Hermione before settling down in her chair. She considered them both, her eyes twinkling.
"So, my dears, would you like dessert now?"
Before they could answer, she flashed her wand upwards. Hermione gasped as a metal tin zipped out from whatever hiding place she had kept it. Harry, baffled, just watched on. The tin, Harry noticed, was a biscuit tin. Only in the lid, he spied small holes punctured in the metal.
"Or would you like to interrogate this deplorable excuse of a journalist who you saved me from?"
Over the music coming from the wireless, they could just make out the panicked scuttling of a very trapped beetle.
Both Harry and Hermione stared at Bathilda, speechless. Bathilda eyed them both as she went to refill their glasses with the wine she brought with her from the kitchen. Harry watched the bottle levitate over the table, pouring out measures of red wine, the sound of the liquid splashing just drowning out the beetle's escape attempts.
"I know her to be tenacious when she has the scent of a story under her nose, but to intrude upon a home during Christmas and abuse my hospitality? Such a level of maliciousness is beyond the norm, even for her." Bathilda lowered the bottle back onto the table. "Had I not been expecting guests, I do believe she would have resorted to memory charms. She has done so before when her questions do not go the way she wants them to."
The matter-of-fact way she addressed the matter was oddly clinical and analytical. Harry stared at her, struggling to catch up. Bathilda didn't know that she was a victim of Rita's memory charms. His heart jumped in his chest, starting to race. Anxious, he shifted in his seat, all thoughts of the Potterwatch broadcast scrubbed from his brain.
"Bathilda…" Harry breathed her name out hesitantly. "What exactly do you remember when she showed up? When we got here, you were acting as if you knew her. Like… she had gotten into your head."
Bathilda went still, her rheumy eyes going distant as she sunk back into her extensive memory that spanned nearly two hundred years. Hatred burned into him at the thought of someone damaging something so priceless. For a historian, her memory was everything to her. Old age already was having a toll, then memory manipulation on top of it.
"I do know her. When she was just an aspiring young journalist, she once visited here to ask me some questions about wizarding rights to Goblic artefacts. I had been impressed and followed her career when she joined The Daily Prophet. A great shame what success did to her. Once she cared about documenting the facts. That was until the facts no longer served her ambition."
Harry winced, pain digging into his lungs as he drew in a sharp breath. He glanced over to Hermione, seeing her visible horror. Of course, it made sense that Rita and Bathilda had history. The familiar way she was around the witch when they arrived hadn't been influenced through the imperius curse at all.
What should I do? What should I do?
If it was him in her position, he would want to know what had been done to him. As horrible as it would be to hear that someone had violated his memory, it was better than having the truth kept from him. What Rita had done was no worse than legilimency and he had experienced only a few days ago how it felt to have his mind broken into and sieged. And that was at the hands of his enemy. Rita had betrayed Bathilda.
"I had half a mind to turn her away when she knocked on my door. I only brought the fidelius down so the Warrington children could come by with their mince pies and brandy cream." Bathilda continued. Her eyes slowly moved to Harry. "She said that she was writing a piece about your appearance in the village on Halloween and asked me if I saw you. I denied it, of course, but then… I don't recall much." She ran a hand down her face, staring past Harry then, dreamily. "Until I remember you arriving. Hmm… perhaps she did use an obliviation or some form of confundus charm. My resilience is not what it used to be, I'm afraid."
Hermione hissed under her breath. Her expression hardened and her eyes took on the fierce look that made Harry immediately go on edge. He could feel her magic coming to life, her rage ignited. He reached for her hand, her skin giving him a small electric shock as if she was statically charged. She looked away pointedly, her jaw tensing as she controlled her rage. Harry let out a breath, his own anger just out of reach, held in control for the sake of the fragile old woman who had become so very dear to him.
He looked from Hermione, still holding her hand. He then carefully rested his other hand on Bathilda's shoulder.
"I'm sorry this happened, Bathilda." He said, his guilt aching inside him as he did. "This is worse than a smear campaign in The Daily Prophet. She… she's been here before, Bathilda. She…" He sighed and he turned in his chair to face her fully. He let go of Hermione's hand so he could reach for Bathilda's. "She interviewed you months ago and you don't remember it. She wiped your memory back then."
Bathilda blinked slowly as they fell silent. Even Rita's struggles in the tin ceased. Harry heard Hermione's soft gasp but he didn't take his gaze away from Bathilda, giving her his undivided attention as he then went to hold both her hands in his. He could feel her fragile bones under her thin skin, her fingers so frail and vulnerable compared to his slightly calloused digits, toughened from years of Quidditch training.
"I'm sorry I've not told you sooner. I didn't want to upset you." Harry broke the silence. "Rita wrote a biography on Dumbledore. I don't know if she planned it before he died or not, but she came here and spoke to you." He glared across at the tin. "We found a copy of the book when we arrived here on Halloween. You were already so confused… we didn't want to cause any more harm."
Her silence was so much worse than the visible distress she'd shown when they arrived. That Harry could deal with in some degree. He knew what she was feeling, the fear, the confusion and the panic. He'd been in that place of total fear before and knew at once how to help - just be there and make her feel safe. But the blank, absent look painted on her lined face… he didn't know what to do or say.
Worse, he wasn't alone. Hermione's own silence communicated that her brilliant mind was struggling to come up with a solution.
Finally after what felt like an age, Bathilda slowly turned her head to look at Harry. The blank expression morphed, her unfocused eyes sharpening. Her lips, already thinned from age, retreated further and he found himself looking upon the visage of a very angry old witch.
"Tell me everything." She ordered him. His face flamed in response, feeling chastened once again. He knew she wasn't angry with him, but he felt very much deserving of her outrage. He was quick to direct his blame inward.
But he was spared the act of telling Bathilda's the true crimes Rita had carried out in her home. Hermione snapped out of her own freeze and told the historian exactly what details of Dumbledore's secret life she had exposed under the influence of veritaserum. The secret, shameful past that made it to print in the best-seller, The Life And Times of Albus Dumbledore.
Harry found himself needing to do something while Hermione spoke. He picked up his wine glass and sipped, his gaze returning often to the metal tin in front of him.
When Hermione reached the point where she told Bathilda that Rita had slipped her veritaserum, Bathilda cursed under her breath. Not in English but in German. A string of angry words hissed out of her lips while her pale cheeks turned a steady flushed pink. Harry got up from his chair, struggling to handle himself. He carried his glass with him, not sure what he was doing as he paced over to the Christmas tree.
How was it fair? Why did so many horrible people get away with their crimes? Why did they never suffer like their victims do? Why was there no justice in their lives?
He chewed on his lip as he stopped in front of the tree, the conversation at his back dwindling as his thoughts pulled him over into a different direction. He drew in a deep breath as he felt his eyes growing warm. The bottle of veritaserum he removed from Rita felt like a leaden weight in his pocket.
How did Rita have so little compassion? How could she ever rationalise that it was okay to force someone to give up their secrets? Drug them in their own home then remove all trace of the crime? All over a blasted book… over gold and ambition. He just couldn't understand how anyone could make themselves believe that it was justified. Greed was an ugly thing.
He let out the breath he was holding and then felt a flash of heat against his bare chest. His fingers fumbled under his collar, pulling out his master medallion from under his shirt and jumper. He glossed over the side with his stag where he had etched his message, turning it. A small etching of a jack russell adorned the other side. Ron's patronus.
Safe. All Ws accounted for.
Harry dropped the medallion and let it hit his chest. That was something at least. The Weasleys were all safe. He tucked it back under his shirt and turned back to the table. He stopped in his tracks when he looked at the tin.
In his mind, he could see so very clearly the look of utter fear on Rita's face when she saw him. In that moment, she had been terrified of him. She begged him to not hurt her. It had given him satisfaction at the time, but now it made him sick. She feared his reaction, his response… his revenge. If she felt guilt, then she knew that her actions were wrong. At last, the consequences for her crimes had caught up with her.
She was a prisoner in the enemy camp, completely at his mercy.
She thought he was going to kill her.
He returned back to his chair. He didn't take it, instead he rested his hands on the back. Hermione had just fallen quiet. He could feel her gaze settling on him, her concern radiating out in waves.
Why was she so scared of me? She's never shown a hint of guilt for her actions in the past. So why now?
He set his glass down, staring at the tin.
"I think there's more to this than Rita's obsession with ruining lives," he said then, more to himself. "She's always been out for herself, no caring who she hurts, but this… is different." He glanced at Bathilda. "This is too far, even for her… and her reaction when she saw me. I don't think she's here on her own terms."
Hermione then softly gasped, bringing his attention back to her.
"Do you think she would work for them?" She asked. "She's always been a lone wolf before now."
"I know but t hey would know that she's very good at getting information. Especially about me." He pointed at his scar. "She spilled the beans about this after all and got everyone to believe that I'm a nutcase." He grimaced and looked over to Bathilda. "And she published Dumbledore's deepest secrets for all to see… and wasn't ashamed to share the means she used. If she thinks she's above the law, then maybe she is."
He then drew his wand out from his belt, eyes fixing on the tin.
"It's not a stretch of the imagination to believe she's here for the Death Eaters. Infiltrating homes, spying… we know she's an expert in that sort of espionage. It's too much of a coincidence that she's back to digging into my life… especially who it benefits."
Bathilda turned sharply to look at him, eyes narrowed.
"Bringing Albus's history with Gellert into light does more than simply damage his reputation. It demoralises those who believed him a hero of equality and fairness, those who fight for the same beliefs he did. This war is being fought on many battlefields, it appears."
"And Rita's picked her side," Harry said, agreeing with her.
"I do not believe this would have been a choice." Bathilda said, watching Harry closely. "Our enemies do not need to work hard to make their propositions attractive. They control everything under martial law, Harry. She would not have the luxury to refuse their demands… and she is expendable to them."
He breathed out a harsh breath out his nose.
"Maybe… but her morals are completely skewed with or without Death Eaters making threats." He then gripped at the chair. "I doubt they told her to come here on Christmas."
Bathilda sighed sadly at that. "I believe she knew that I would be more… open to having guests today of all days."
Harry glared at the tin. She took advantage of Bathilda's loneliness.
Hermione then surprised them both when she leapt out of her chair, her eyes aflame.
"Then fuck her!"
Harry's jaw dropped open. Hermione had to be extremely riled up to swear not just in front of him but Bathilda. She rounded on him, fury tensing every line of her face. Her furious eyes softened when she looked over to Bathilda. Not explaining herself, she then leaned over the table and snatched the tin up. The beetle crashed against the sides in fear.
"I won't let her ruin this Christmas." Hermione hissed. "Not for another second. She can't get out. I'm pretty good at trapping this particular insect, after all." She lifted the tin up to her face, glaring through the holes. She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Aren't I, Rita?"
Harry then looked over to Bathilda, chewing on his lip. Rita had already caused enough damage on the day that they intended to spend with the elderly historian. They came to visit her to give her some hope and happiness, stave away the loneliness of her old age. Instead, Rita nearly threatened everything.
She could wait. Her schemes, her reasons for being there, all could wait. The last thing he wanted was to let her take another good thing away from him. She'd tainted his memories of Dumbledore. Made out that he was an unhinged attention-seeker. And now she was trying to ruin his family.
Not on his watch, not on Christmas and never in his family home of Godric's Hollow.
"She's already soured this day enough." Harry voiced his support. "And you're right, she's done enough damage." He sighed softly and turned to Bathilda. "We came here for Bathilda, not her."
Bathilda let out a soft gasp and she looked up at him. Her eyes dewed. He then lowered himself down to his knees at her chairside. He then held his arms out to his sides, holding her gaze. She at once reached for him, pulling him into a hug.
He brought his arms around her frail frame. Her face settled onto his shoulder. His heart seized when she let out a soft sob. He shuffled closer on his knees, holding her as she took comfort in his protective, loving embracing.
Hermione hovered over him, moving behind. She bent over and kissed him on the top of his head. She sighed a warm breath into his black locks. One hand ran through his hand.
"I'll take her upstairs. Out of sight and out of mind." She told him, then drew away, leaving him alone with Bathilda, taking away the source of the old woman's distress.
"I think this may answer your earlier question." He said when Hermione's footsteps retreated upstairs to secure their prisoner properly. Slowly, he drew his arms back from Bathilda. Her face was pink and streaked with tears. She gave him a questioning look. He smiled and stood back up, turning towards the kitchen.
"I think we should definitely have dessert."
With stomachs comfortably full of Bathilda's home-cooked Christmas pudding, they retired to the living room. The mood soon lifted back up, helped along with Harry's determination to have one happy day for them to savour in the dark days ahead. Once Hermione returned from securing their prisoner, she wasn't surprised to find two tear-stained faces when Harry and Bathilda parted. The private moment between them stirred up buried pain in her own heart. While the two lonely hearts came together, Hermione's own heart felt the loss of her own family.
She told herself firmly during the lead up to Christmas that she would focus on what was in front of her, not on what she had to give up. Her thoughts betrayed her when she lay awake beside Harry's sleeping form, when his light and love wasn't immediately present to protect her. She thought of how her parents would be spending Christmas in the Australian summer, believing that they were starting a new life together, a life without her.
It hurt more than she could ever admit. Pain that made her cling to every one of Harry's soft touches and kisses. She needed him just as much as he needed her. While a lonely Christmas without a family of his own was a tragic reality Harry had come to terms with, it was new for her. New and raw.
Joined by Harry on the sofa, she focused everything on the way Harry cradled her hand in his own. She pulled every fibre of her concentration in savouring his smile and his flushed face, a little tipsy now from the wine. It took everything to make her not think of her parents, of the eggnog in the evening and being allowed to open the chocolates that she'd been eyeing up for weeks in the lead up to the holiday. She tried to not think of the excitement she used to feel in the morning of Christmas day, the stocking hanging from the mantlepiece full of presents. Most of all, she blocked off thoughts of her mum gathering her up in one of her hugs and planting kisses on her cheeks to thank her for her presents.
They moved the wireless into the living room with them. Amid the many songs of Celestina Walbeck, there was the occasional carol that was known among wizards and muggles alike. The music remained background noise as the wine loosened Harry's tongue. He started to open up to Bathilda, more so than before. Harry had shared some of his life with Bathilda during their last stay, enough to explain why he hadn't been able to come back to Godric's Hollow before now. She knew all about his public exploits, his adventures and his achievements. But not about his private life. Hermione held onto his hand as he shared about how he had no idea about magic until Hagrid came into his life. How he discovered the world he belonged to and discovered his fame. Hermione pulled herself out of her personal melancholy and rejoined the conversation the moment she heard Bathilda ask Harry about his muggle upbringing. It wasn't a topic that Harry should address alone.
"I bet a lot of wizarding families would have agreed to take me in, even if I'm not related to them." Harry said. "I know many wouldn't give a hoot about me being half-blood, but it would have painted huge targets on them. I'm the Boy Who Lived, after all. There were still the Death Eaters at large and I'd just taken out their leader so…"
He then hesitated. Hermione looked at him and saw that the pink spots on his cheeks had drained away completely.
"If I hadn't been sent to live with my Aunt, I'd probably be dead. She might not have loved me, but my mum - her sister - did. That saved my life… in more ways than one." He then sighed. "I lived, but I… I didn't have a very happy childhood."
Bathilda let out a low hum and she reached across to him. Her hand patted his leg, his face mournful. He raised his head and met Bathilda's eyes.
"My relatives made it very clear to me that I wasn't wanted and that my presence in their lives was a huge inconvenience." Harry continued. Hermione held her breath, her heart seizing at the sound of him sharing what was so very personal to him. "They made sure to spend the barest of effort on me and as little money on me as possible. I probably would have been better cared for in an orphanage, to tell you the truth. At least there, being an orphan wouldn't have been something to be ashamed about."
Hermione closed her eyes as he spoke. She knew about how ghastly the Dursleys were, but hearing it out of Harry's mouth, that he had been so horribly neglected and starved of any love for so long, was heartbreaking.
"When I was little, I thought it was normal for orphans to be treated like it, but when I got older, I knew how wrong it was." Harry then looked up, his eyes starting to tear up. Then he closed his eyes briefly for a moment, then sighed. "But it doesn't matter anymore. They'll never admit that they were wrong to treat me the way they did. When I returned to this world, I was pretty eager to turn my back on that part of my life. There's nothing I can do to change it and I'd just go insane tormenting myself about what ifs."
"Oh Harry…" Hermione sighed and immediately wrapped her arms around him. When he didn't hug her back and instead just flopped his head to her chest.
"I'm okay." Harry mumbled into her cardigan. "I was rescued in the end. My life is all sorts of messed up, but this makes all that worth it. I survived to make it to this moment." As he relaxed, Hermione tensed, her arms coming around him protectively.
"We love you." She said into his hair firmly. "You're loved right now and always be loved."
Bathilda rose from her seat, rushing over. Her grandma sense had clearly gone off as Harry gave a soft sob. Hermione felt warmth rushing out of him. His magic surged in response to his heart as he allowed himself to bathe in the love she was showing him. His fingers scrambled at Hermione's back as he fought to control his reaction to her words.
"Oh my poor boy." Bathilda sighed as she came over. "I'm so sorry. Had I known, I would have never pried."
Harry gave a feeble chuckle.
"That's the thing, Bathilda. No one does know. I'm… I'm only really opening up about it now that I feel like… I won't be treated differently." He said as he extracted himself from Hermione. His glasses were askew where he had pressed his face up against her. His eyes were wet but he was smiling. He turned to Bathilda. "It's hard to talk about, but you deserve to know why this is so important to me. Having you… being here."
Bathilda then stepped up to him, resting her hands on either side of his face. Her pale eyes searched his face, her expression incredibly tender. Then she leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead.
"We cannot choose who we are related to, but we can choose who we see as our family." She said to him softly. "I know how hard that must have been to share, Harry, and I'm honoured that you trust me. I know…." She sighed and searched his face, pain lingering in her eyes. "I was deprived of a family of my own too. I have spent many a Christmas alone in this house."
Harry's eyes gleamed, a strand of silver clinging to his lower eyelids. Hermione saw his throat bob.
Bathilda dropped her hands from Harry's face, her gaze lifting, going vacant for a moment as a thought pulled her away.
"I have something to show you… I will only be a moment."
Bathilda then scuttled away to fetch whatever had just come to her. She took her brandy with her. Harry watched her abrupt departure, baffled, but then his attention moved onto Hermione. She stared at him, her breath catching in her throat.
They were alone.
Harry must have had the same thought as he was across the short distance between them. Both his hands were on her shoulders and he pulled her towards him. She complied, needing him.
His lips danced over hers, soft and gentle. His breath sighed into her mouth as he then caressed her cheeks, brushing caring strokes over her skin in a way that made her come alive under his touch. Hermione hadn't realised that she'd closed her eyes and she opened them, finding Harry's face and his glasses, still askew. She brought her hands up and neatened them for him. She then ran the backs of her fingers down his cheek tenderly.
"I love you."
"I love you too." He said at once, no hesitation. Hermione drank in the look he gave her. No one had ever looked her in such a way. Fathomless love, unrestrained, untampered. His beautiful green irises were brilliant rings, her reflection captured in the depths of his pupils. She could feel him, a sense of his consciousness, his mind… his soul. His eyes truly were windows into the heart of him.
The painful grief that clawed her inside out abated. She missed her parents… wished that she could have just one last kiss goodnight, one last loving embrace. She missed Christmas with her caring parents, the normality of the life she had before the magical world whisked her away.
But the love Harry possessed was more than enough to keep her going. His love, a power strong enough to rival Lord Voldemort, was hers.
"I know I'm no substitute for your family… for your parents. I imagine… you'd like to spend Christmas with them too." Her heart jumped at his words. How…? Shocked, she leaned back. Did he read my mind? She then saw his lips curl in the corners.
"I can read you just as well as you can read me," he then explained softly, amused at her reaction. Then he sobered and he sighed, eyes downcast for a moment. He took her hand again, rubbing her fingers.
"I know… that it must be pretty raw. I know what it's like, but I've had a long time to come to terms with it." He said.
She sucked in a breath, her heart aching.
"Harry… it's not like that. I miss them terribly, but they're safe. Alive. I know that. And if this ever ends, I can-."
Harry frowned at her, making her cut off.
"No, don't make this out to be less than it is. Not for my sake." He said, taking her other hand in his. "I'm here for you, Hermione. Forever and always."
She squeezed his hands. Never had she thought it was possible to love someone so much.
"Just… know that I care. Whatever you need to help, I'll do my best. We're in this together… remember? You're helping me and I want to help you too."
She did remember, of course she did. And she remembered exactly why she fell in love with Harry in the first place. Why he had been her very first crush. He was the kindest, most caring person she knew. He cared so much. Too much. He wore his heart on his sleeve and was hurt too often because of it. He tried so hard to hide his pain, but never held back from helping someone else suffering the same. He was the living embodiment of compassion.
And that his relatives never cared for someone so full of love made her want to hunt them down and make them beg for Harry's forgiveness.
Bathilda soon returned. She carried something in her hands, something that looked very much like one of her thousands of books. She was smiling as she returned, her eyes giving a rather knowing glint as if she was well aware of what they had been up to in her absence. Moving quickly on her little legs, she reached them. Both Harry and Hermione stared at what she held, coming to the same realisation.
It wasn't a book. It was a photo album.
"May I join you?" Bathilda asked. Both Harry and Hermione then parted, leaving a space between them for the witch to sit between them. She squeezed in the gap, smiling her gratitude, and placed the album on her lap.
She opened it. Hermione gasped softly as she saw the first pages were affixed with moving black and white prints, all clearly very old. Precursors to photographs.
"My father was the last Bagshot to sit in the Wizengamot. During those times, only a wizard could take a seat. Witches had no place in the Council Halls." She stopped flicking through the pages, looking over to Harry. "My father's first wife only bore him witches, my older half sisters were married off young as was the way of things during those times. He divorced her for her failure to provide heirs and married again. I arrived soon after - another girl. You can imagine how my father treated my birth."
Hermione's heart sank at the admission. Her hand went up to her chest and she looked upon Bathilda sadly. Harry gave a soft gasp and he visibly winced.
"I'm sorry, Bathilda," he said gently.
Bathilda nodded in response and turned the next page.
"I was ten years old when my father passed. He never achieved his dream of a son and died cursing my name. His last words marked me for life. His curse left me barren." Her hand paused on the page and she looked up to Harry. "I am unable to bear children of my own."
Hermione gasped then, her hand jumping up to her mouth. During those times, the only thing that brought more shame to a pureblood family was a squib. Bathilda then turned the page. Another print, this time it showed a young family. Underneath, Bathilda had written a description herself.
Violet and Klaus with Markus. 1862.
"This is my eldest sister and her husband - Klaus Grindelwald. Markus, their son, was born a month after my father's death."
Hermione's breath hitched as she realised then what Bathilda was doing. To make up for bringing up Harry's painful past, she was bringing up her own. Harry realised as well and he gasped softly.
"Is Markus…?"
"Gellert Grindelwald's father?" Bathilda finished for him. "Yes, he was." She turned the page. This time, there was a photograph, not a print. A very old photograph. A witch in her thirties looked out at them, unsmiling. Hermione knew at once that it was a portrait of Bathilda. She wore heavy furs, thick around her small frame. Around her was a wintery landscape, pristine and white.
"I experienced a childhood very similar to your own, Harry. I knew neglect at the hands of my parents and my sisters. So I turned to other sources to comfort me - I turned to knowledge. History. My career at Hogwarts was esteemed and celebrated, though my mother and sisters would never show any pride. When I graduated, I left the country and their unjust traditions. I sought to make a name for myself and prove that witches have more worth than being broodmares."
She turned the pages, showing them pictures of her younger self clearly in different chapters of her adventures. Hermione gazed at Bathilda. It was ground-breaking for a witch at that time and age to be so independent. She truly was an inspiration.
"When my fame peaked, my sister - Violet Grindelwald - chose to make amends with me. I was reluctant, at first, but when she wrote of me of how her children wanted to know their aunt, I decided to mend the rift. I could not have children on my own and did not wish to be absent from my nieces and nephews lives. They were innocent, after all."
She continued to flick through and then she stopped. Harry drew in a sharp breath. Hermione stared at the photograph. There was a small boy, his hair pale, nearly white in he black and white image. An older Bathilda was smiling and laughing, holding the child aloft. He was giggling in the photo. Bathilda was much older than she had been in the photographs of her travelling the world, her hair greyed. She had to be in her seventies, Hermione guessed.
"I adored Gellert the moment he came into my life."
Hermione looked across at Harry at once. He met her gaze, his mouth opening to speak, but he decided against it.
"Love can make you overlook so much." Bathilda said sadly, her finger gracing over Gellert's face. He was very young in the photograph. "But he was so smart, so bright. He had such a thirst for knowledge. The moment he learnt to write, he sent me letters nearly every day. I visited him whenever I could. I told him stories… he loved Beedle the Bard the best, of course."
Hermione's heart was jumping as the pieces came together. The copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard that she had, the one Dumbledore gave her… the same copy Bathilda gave him. She saw Harry's widening eyes.
"But as he got older, he stopped listening to my stories. He grew out of them and started to listen to his father instead. His fascination for knowledge turned morbid and his opinions… well…" Bathilda stopped turning the pages. Hermione looked down and saw why. She had seen a photograph like it in Rita's book. Gellert Grindelwald as a young man, only without Dumbledore at his side. Instead, it was Bathilda. She was holding his hand, smiling sweetly, clearly very happy.
"I didn't see him for a number of years, not until Durmstrang expelled him. He wrote to me then, asking for help after my sister disowned him. I took it upon myself to give him safe harbour." She stared down at the photograph. "I confess, I believed I could get through to him and make him forsake his thirst for power."
She then turned the page.
"Here. You may recognise who this is."
Now Hermione peered down at the face of a teenaged Albus Dumbledore. He had been a handsome young man, but he was nothing compared to his companion. Gellert Grindelwald oozed charisma from the photograph itself. His sharp suit tailored neatly to his slender form, his hair slicked back in the style of the time, his face clean-shaven. Albus's hair was dissheveled, his clothes a little threadbare, his jacket bearing elbow pads.
"I dismissed their eccentric ideals of magical dominion as teenaged wizards having fantasies of grandeur. I did not believe Gellert would ever act on his ambition nor did I ever believe Albus would be brought into his vision. Not until tragedy struck and I saw the truth for myself. I never forgave myself for inflicting that child upon the Dumbledores. A child that I knew, deep down, had been corrupted early on in his life when his parents entertained his dark nature. I failed him… the only family left to me."
Hermione gazed down at the photograph. A tear fell from Bathilda's eyes. Harry at once put his hand over Bathilda's, his expression total concern.
"It sounds like he was beyond help, Bathilda," he said to her.
She looked over at him and smiled sadly at him. "He was beyond my help, but I was not the one to stop him in the end. Albus… got through to him. He always was his true weakness."
Hermione looked down at the photograph, eyes widening.
"Gellert feared Albus like no other." Bathilda continued in a soft voice. "In skill and power, they were both matched, though perhaps Gellert had the advantage with his proclivity with the Dark Arts. He had access to an arsenal that Albus did not. And yet, Albus gained the upper hand whenever they did finally clash at the height of Gellert's power. Gellert would never be able to defeat Albus."
"But… why?" Hermione asked, stunned.
Bathilda smiled sadly at her.
"He was in love with him."
"W-what?" Harry gasped out. "He… they…"
Hermione met Harry's shocked look across from him. Too many revelations shot through her mind. Pieces slotted into place. It was suddenly so very clear why Dumbledore kept his secret. His true secret.
"But… Rita…" Harry was speechless. "If you knew about them, then how did she not find that out?"
Bathilda's smile had an edge to it and she turned the next page.
"I do not know, but I am very certain that had she asked the right questions, I would have voiced my suspicions. They kept to themselves mostly when they were upstairs in Gellert's room and they shared letters in the dead of night when Albus returned to his family."
More shock rippled through Hermione as she angled her head upward to the ceiling, thinking of the bed upstairs.
Oh my God…
Bathilda looked away, her expression misty as she reminisced.
"Gellert was besotted with him. He finally had an intellectual equal, a companion to join him on his crusade." She then sighed. "But Albus was soon turned from such dreams of glory and domination when tragedy came once again to the Dumbledore household and little Ariana… bless that poor sweet girl."
Hermione caught Harry's sly glance in her direction at once. She could see his rapid fire thoughts darting around in his eyes, making sense of the revelation. She then looked down at the photograph. Her heart hurt for the young Albus. He would endure so much loss. His father in Azkaban, his family shamed. His mother deceased, leaving him to look after his siblings. She then thought of Aberforth, the bitter innkeeper of the Hogs Head. She remembered his cynicism towards his brother. Of course he would have known about Dumbledore's secret relationship with the Dark wizard.
The story unfolded before her. Aberforth's anger made perfect sense. Albus abandoned him and his sister to spend time with Gellert, plotting rebellion and the subjugation of muggles. She thought back to what Rita had written, what Bathilda had told her in trust. That Ariana had died due to an accident and both Albus and Gellert had been there. What happened?
Was Gellert behind it?
The thought sickened her. She looked away from the photograph and Bathilda's twisted great nephew. Bathilda looked across at her, seeing her reaction, and reached over, patting her hand.
"I am not proud of my part in Gellert's life. I should have seen what he really was, but I was blind, just as Albus was. We all have our weaknesses." She turned the page, removing the face of the future mass murderer from view. "None of us are perfect and can be capable of the most atrocious things. But just as we are capable of evil, we are capable of love."
Bathilda then sighed and then closed the album with a soft flump. She set the ancient album on the coffee table and then turned to face Harry, whose eyes were wide, face pale. He then lifted his head and looked at her. Hermione could see him struggling again, his heart on full display. His face crumpled a little and he reached over, taking Bathilda's hand in his. The wireless, mostly forgotten, was the only sound in the room as the jolly carol warbled in the background.
His teeth worried on his lip and Hermione could suddenly see the lonely unloved orphan apprehensively peering out. His hand tensed on Bathilda's.
"I don't know what it's like to have a grandmother." He said quietly. "I don't even know what it's like to have a mum… but… I think this might be what it's like."
Bathilda then wrapped her arms around him. Hermione watched on, her eyes dewing with tears.
"Oh my dear, sweet one. You've been like a grandson to me ever since I saw that cute nose of yours when you were a newborn babe."
Bathilda's hug was brief, but only because she drew back so she could pinch Harry's nose. He spluttered in surprise, cheeks turning pink.
"Now I do believe I have enough in me for one more tipple. You will both join me for a drink and I will not take no for an answer."
Hermione had no idea where Bathilda got the energy from. She was nearly two hundred and bustled around with a rigour that would have made Molly Weasley proud. She summoned the bottle of brandy from wherever it was she kept her stash of liquor, two glasses identical to her own following it from the kitchen. Harry was quick to jump up and catch them before a messy landing resulted in smashed glass. He shook his head to himself and set the glasses safely on the table so Bathilda could pour them drinks.
Suddenly, Harry stiffened as if he had a sudden fright. His eyes immediately zipped on Hermione's face. He froze as if he couldn't remember what he was doing. He blinked a couple of times and then he came back into himself, shaking his head.
Hermione then realised why he had frozen. She heard what carol had just come on. She knew the melody at once. The version that had come on had an orchestral introduction, not leading immediately into the song as was the case for most carols and hymns. It gave her a chance to catch Harry's attention, to persuade him to grace her and Bathilda with his secret gift.
"Harry." She whispered his name. He glanced at her again. Then he looked over to the wireless. His shoulders dropped and he gave her a look that conveyed his reluctance and nerves. His head dropped and he took a deep breath just as the orchestra finished the introduction, leading into the first verse.
"In the bleak midwinter."
It was every part as enchanting as the first time Hermione heard Harry sing. His voice sounded mellower, less halting, more sure of himself since he had a small piece of practice.
Bathilda's reaction of complete surprise was perfect, though the brandy bottle slipping through her fingers was not. Hermione had her wand out the moment she saw the neck of the bottle slip through her fingers.
"Wingardium leviosa." She whispered as quietly as she could to not interrupt the wonderful sound of Harry's voice.
"Frosty wind made moan," Harry didn't stop but his eyes had widened in response to Hermione's reflexes. He then straightened as he sang. "Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone."
He then sighed out a short breath, his brow furrowing for a moment, then he looked directly at Bathilda. He reached out, taking her hand.
Unlike when Harry had sung to Hermione in the tent, this time he didn't hold back on pitching up. His voice lifted in volume as he committed. Hermione's vision immediately blurred as tears flooded.
"Snow had fallen, snow on snow on snow." His voice went deep again and then his mouth lifted up in the corner.
"In the bleak midwinter… long… long ago."
While the choir on the wireless continued into the next verse, Harry went silent. Bathilda face had gone completely slack as she gaped at Harry, then she finally drew in a breath and practically launched herself at Harry. He grunted as the brandy bottle found its way into his stomach, effectively winding him.
"Oh my angel!" She sobbed as she clung to Harry like a lifeline. Hermione smiled, her own tears trailing free as she watched on as Harry received the love he so deserved. "James didn't just give you his good looks, did he? Oh... oh, you precious one."
Hermione couldn't help but laugh at the look on Harry's face. He flustered patting Bathilda's back, eyes flicking up to Hermione as if asking for help. She instead got up from the sofa and approached them. Beaming at Harry, her heart full of adoration for the man who meant the entire world to her, she hung back. Bathilda had other plans. Hearing Hermione's approach, she caught Hermione and pulled her into the embrace.
"You are a part of this too, dear girl. And when you are both married, you will be a granddaughter to me as well."
Hermione's face flamed, staring at Harry.
"Married?" Harry croaked out.
Bathilda started to laugh, her small chest trembling with the sounds. Her laugh was a dry cackle at first, then it grew louder. Hermione caught herself laughing, caught up in the euphoric emotions that crescendoed around them. She then found it hard to stop, her arms then coming around both Bathilda and Harry. When she saw Harry's incredulous look, she laughed harder and noticed Bathilda doing the same.
This was what Hermione had been missing. That aching emptiness she felt, the wound where something had been torn out of her ever since she said that word - Obliviate. The weightless joy of being with those she loved and the warmth of hearth and home. This was why she said that word, why she removed herself from her parents' lives. This was what she was protecting and what she was fighting for.
Family.
AN: So - forget what I said about this being a behemoth fic. I'm going to tie up this arc and then we are going into a sequel. Two chapters remain. Once I have some of the sequel ready, I'll plop an epilogue here and then immediately go into the sequel. I feel like this fic is at its natural end now.