Godric's Hollow was quiet when they arrived in the middle of the street the next week. Although it was empty, like Diagon Alley, there was no sense of eeriness. If anything, it felt calm.

"I still think we should have used Polyjuice Potion," Hermione whispered, squeezing Harry's hand softly.

"No. I was born here. I'm not coming back as someone else."

She looked around hesitantly, but otherwise didn't respond, only jumping when they heard the noise of people behind them. She almost reached for her wand, but it wasn't Death Eaters. They were laughing and talking as they came out of a building. Maybe visiting family? It had started snowing again. He released her hand and opened his arm for her to put hers through. As they began walking and she looked into the other buildings, her worried face softened. Through the windows, she could see colored lights wrapped around a tree, and as the noise from the group died down, familiar music drifted into the street. "Harry…" He looked over at her with a small grin, holding her close. "I think it's Christmas Eve. Listen."

She paused. It made sense with the general timeline she'd kept in her head, but she still couldn't believe it. They'd been alone for probably three months. Together for three months. She squeezed his arm a little tighter. It had been years since she'd spent Christmas without her parents, but this was… nice. Arm-in-arm with Harry, walking down the street of a small town on Christmas Eve, another one of those moments where it felt like nothing was going on. Godric's Hollow truly was a different world from the one they'd been living in.

It was a little bit of a shock when a gloved hand turned her head and Harry kissed her softly. She blushed - this was the first time they'd kissed when someone else could see, and she had no idea how she felt about PDA, but it didn't last long before Harry just grinned at her and started walking again. Her head fell to his shoulder as he looked around, too.

It was strange, an odd sense of familiarity without actually knowing about anything in this neighborhood. Something kept pulling Harry forward, whether memories or something different, but it didn't feel dark necessarily. Just strange. Then he saw it - a graveyard. His heart suddenly felt heavy again. "Do you think they'd be in there, Hermione? My mum and dad?"

She looked over at him, pulling him a little closer. "Yeah, I think they would," she replied softly. But neither of them moved for a few seconds. "Come on, Harry. I… I'd like to meet them."

Harry nodded once, taking the first step towards the entrance. Once they were in, Harry let go of Hermione's hand, and she understood the message: he wanted to be alone for a moment. She didn't even want to try to understand what he must be feeling, so she busied her mind with looking around at the other headstones. Where most of them were simple headstones, some of them, she noticed with curiosity, were above-ground vaults, making them greatly stand out from the others. She knew Dumbledore had lived here, and Godric Gryffindor himself was born here - was he buried in this graveyard? How many other notable witches and wizards rested here? She glanced over at Harry, who was walking slowly between the aisles, before making her way to the closest vault and wiping the snow off partially. Her eyebrows furrowed as a carving started to appear that wasn't a name, and as she cleared it completely, she easily recognized it as the symbol in the book, the symbol Luna's dad was wearing. Three times they'd seen it. It had to mean something.

She cleared down further until the name appeared. "Ignotus Peverell," she muttered to herself. It didn't sound familiar at all. "Hey, Harry?" she called, looking over her shoulder at Harry again, but he was frozen. Her heart broke; he must have found it.

Harry heard careful footsteps approaching, but he didn't register. He was here because of them. Alive because of them. Here with Hermione because of them. He wanted to talk to them, to thank them, to tell them he loved them or something , but nothing was coming out. He couldn't find the right words.

Hermione couldn't imagine their courage. Only 21 when they died - only three years older than she was right now. What would she do if she only had three years left? Or three months? Three days? It was scary to think it was a possibility right now. She could see tears threatening to spill from Harry's eyes, his jaw tight. He wouldn't be here if it wasn't for their sacrifice. Silently, because she didn't want to spoil the moment with noise, she knelt down and conjured a small wreath adorned with white roses to lean up against the stone before standing back up and reaching for Harry's hand.

He squeezed it tightly, unable to think of any words to explain his feelings to Hermione, either. But for her to put flowers on his parents' grave was more than he could have ever asked for. He sniffed away some tears and wiped his nose on his sleeve; he knew she wouldn't care. "Happy Christmas, Hermione," he finally managed to get out, though right now, this was the worst Christmas he'd ever had.

Hermione seemed to understand the intent, and responded with a whispered, "Happy Christmas, Harry" before leaning her head on his shoulder. She hadn't seen him cry in a long time, and in this moment of vulnerability, she wished she could kiss him, but it didn't seem right. She wished she could tell him she loved him. But this definitely wasn't the time, and she didn't want her emotions ruining the moment. Instead, she just let herself be close, let him cry if he needed to, and just to be there for support.

She wasn't sure how long they were going to stay there, and if they were going to look for the sword, or anything else, they probably shouldn't dally too much longer, but her mention of this was forgotten when she felt eyes on them. She glanced to the side and swallowed hard when she saw a figure in the snow, just standing there. Watching them.

"Harry," she whispered, so inconspicuously that her words felt like little more than a breath on Harry's neck. It sent a shiver down his spine. "There's someone watching us. By the church."

Just like that, their moment of peace was over. Harry's eyes followed Hermione's direction, and he frowned. "I think I know who that is." Even at a distance, she looked familiar. And any enemy would have attacked already. The figure started walking back out of the graveyard, and Harry pulled Hermione to follow. She stiffened, but trusted his judgement, and they began to walk too.

"Who is she?" she whispered, keeping their distance just in case something went awry. Hermione's hand didn't release its firm grip on Harry's.

"I think it's Bathilda Bagshot. You know, the one Rita Skeeter interviewed for Dumbledore's book. She wrote A History of Magic ," Harry replied. "I recognize her picture on the back," he quickly clarified at Hermione's impressed face. She shook her head with the beginning of a smile, but frowned again.

"I don't care who she is. This feels strange, Harry. I don't like it. I don't like it at all." She pressed herself even closer to him, if that was possible.

"Hermione, she knew Dumbledore. She could know where the sword is." He thought he heard Hermione huff, but something else caught his attention: a burned down house that had never been restored. It was an eyesore, and he couldn't understand why they hadn't fixed it, why they had left his parents' home like a masochistic monument. A reminder of what had happened as if they wanted to freeze that moment in time forever. Bile threatened to burn its way up his throat as he couldn't help but stop in his tracks.

"Harry-" she started, but found herself at a loss for words once more.

"This is where my parents were murdered, Hermione." Saying it out loud hurt nearly every muscle in his body. He swallowed hard again, afraid he wouldn't be able to make it much longer without vomiting. His whole life had changed in this very spot. But they had to keep moving. He jumped as he turned to keep walking and Bathinda was less than a foot away, staring at them. He hadn't even heard her approach. Hermione gasped, tightening her hand so hard he thought she might break his. He figured it was best to let her - he could always fix it later.

But Bathilda didn't say a word. She just turned around and started walking again. "Harry…" Hermione whined.

"Hermione, it's fine." He didn't understand what her hesitation was. Bathilda seemed magnetizing somehow, but not dangerous. Maybe that was why Rita's interview had been so long. But he understood her hesitance to talk here in the street - they could be being watched. Harry didn't want to think about that.

They were silent again as Bathilda led them to a small house and pushed the door open, jerking her head to the side for Harry to go in. An arm flung out to stop Hermione from entering, and Harry paused as well.

"I'm not leaving her," Harry insisted, not letting go of her hand. "Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of her. Otherwise I'm leaving, too." He didn't know what good that threat would do - why would Bathilda care whether he stayed or not? She could give him the sword and leave. Bathilda didn't break eye contact with him for what seemed like a few minutes. Hermione was silent behind them until Bathilda finally lowered her arm with somewhat of a sinister smile on her face. Hermione stepped in and plastered herself to Harry's side again.

A rotten smell hit his nose that he couldn't place, but it was so dark in there, he could barely see anything anyway. The only light came from the moon, so it took their eyes a couple minutes to adjust.

Bathilda picked up a candle and holder, struggling with the matchbox to light one as if she'd lost the use of her dexterity with the cold. Harry shivered; it was almost as cold in here as it was outside. "Let me do that," he offered after a second, taking the items from her and lighting one of the matches. The flame gleamed off her eyes in an unnatural way, but again, Bathilda only stared before turning her gaze on Hermione, who froze. Something was very wrong about the way this woman was looking at her; it made Hermione's stomach tie itself in knots. Harry, meanwhile, had moved across the room, somehow much more comfortable.

"Ms. Bagshot," he picked up a photo of a young man from one of the tables and held it out to her, "who's this man?" Harry recognized him as the one he'd seen in his vision, with Gregorovitch. Was he affiliated with Voldemort? Why would Bathilda have a photo of him in her house? He also thought he'd seen him in one of their books, but in the dim light, he couldn't be sure.

But she didn't answer, and picked up the candle, walking towards the stairs. Harry began to follow her when Hermione grabbed his arm. "Harry, no. I think we need to get out of here. I don't think she has the sword." He could hear the fear in her voice, but he wasn't about to leave without answers.

"Hermione, I'll be fine. Give me five minutes, okay? If I'm not back down here in five minutes, you can come up. She came to get me for a reason."

"Be careful, Harry," she whispered, hesitating before quickly kissing him, then letting go of his arm. "Five minutes."

He nodded, trying not to let Hermione's hesitance psych him out too much. He knew she was right; something didn't feel right here, but Bathilda was leading him to something, and he needed to find out what.

Hermione let out a shaky breath as Harry went out of sight. Didn't he just say she wasn't leaving his side? " Lumos ." She squinted a little at the bright light, but it was much better than the next to nothing they had before. The piles of books surrounding her were almost exciting, if not a little overwhelming. She kept an ear out for Harry while she started looking through them. The first was another copy of The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore with a note attached.

Dear Batty,

Thanks for your help. You said everything… even if you don't remember.

Rita

Hermione rolled her eyes. There were so many unkind words she had for that woman, and now for her to take advantage of a potentially senile old woman who probably didn't know half of what she was saying under Rita's questioning. Maybe Harry wasn't in danger after all. Most of the other books she uncovered didn't seem helpful until she found an old, thick, black leather cover with Secrets of the Darkest Arts embossed on it. She raised an eyebrow and glanced up the stairs before sliding it into her bag. That could definitely come in handy, as much as she hated the thought of even opening it.

In the silence, her ears picked up on a noise: a weird buzzing coming from somewhere down the hall. She held her wand out in front of her, following the noise until she saw the source. Flies were buzzing wildly around one of the closet doors, in and out of the small gap from it being cracked open slightly. Against her better judgement, she pushed it open and slapped a hand over her mouth and nose to prevent herself from vomiting all over the floor. She'd always thought she had a strong stomach, but the heap of organs swarming with flies and roaches combined with the blood splattered all over the walls of the closet was almost too much for her to bear.

A crash came from directly above her and her nausea was instantly quelled and replaced with aggressive concern she'd never felt before. "Harry!" she called, turning too quickly and tripping over a pile of books. She cursed them as she got back to her feet and sprinted up the stairs. By the time she found Harry, he was backing away from a massive snake, walls were gone, furniture was broken, and Harry looked like he might be bleeding. Hermione hoped it wasn't his. She shot a curse at the snake and it fell through the dilapidated floor from its own weight.

Harry clutched his arm tightly as he had a moment to breathe. He should have realized. But he didn't even think it was possible. That didn't matter right now, though, as he watched Hermione cautiously move past the hole in the floor to grab Harry's wand. He'd have to thank her for that later. For a lot. Again. They managed to stand, Harry peeking over the edge of the bed to peer down into the bottom floor. Nothing was moving, but he knew it couldn't have been that easy.

He was right. In a split second, a pair of fangs soared from below and Hermione pointed her wand in the snake's direction. " Confringo !" Flames spouted from the tip as she grabbed the back of his neck and Apparated them away with the sound of breaking glass and, Harry swore, a very angry hiss.