It had not been a good morning. Right from the off it seemed as if everything was going wrong: the charm on the boys' shower had gone haywire, shooting out great gushes of freezing water throughout the dorm; Seamus missed the trick step and nearly bowled over a group of first year girls as he tumbled down the moving staircase; Neville was nowhere to be found; and fixated on final revisions, Hermione knocked a pot of tea all over Harry's lap, and more importantly, her papers.

"Sorry," she said distractedly, lying her tea-soaked papers along the table to dry. "It's just this Arithmancy assignment has been causing me so much trouble lately."

"It's okay, Hermione," he said, moving over to help her. He understood her franticness over assignments better than anyone at the moment.

It had been weeks since he'd returned to classes, and he still hadn't caught up on all his schoolwork. It came in never-ending streams. For every assignment he finished, two more took its place in the towering stack building on his bedside.

After breakfast was a single period of Transfiguration, where they took notes for an hour on the principles of conjuration. Between listening and scribbling down McGonagall's every word, he also filled in the rest of an 18-inch essay that was meant to be handed in last week. There was an exasperated expression on Professor McGonagall's face when she took the essay from him at the end of class. "I had been hoping to hand back the marked copies today," she told him.

All Harry could do was give her a half-apologetic shrug. He wished it was only Transfiguration he was behind in. He didn't have anything to show Professor Flitwick in Charms class that followed.

"Perhaps next time…" Professor Flitwick said with a soft shake of the head when Harry had told him. "Take a seat, take a seat," he called out to the rest of the class, climbing onto his table to be seen, "today we are practicing the Aguamenti charm."

As such, it was a very wet group of sixth-year students who came down together for lunch in the Great Hall.

"Blimey, it's just like the shower from this morning," Ron complained as he magically wrung the water out of his sweater. "Why'd we even dry off in the first place?"

Harry laughed as he wiped his glasses clean with his sleeve. After being smashed in his encounter with the Lethifolds, a number of enchantments on them broke and had yet to be re-cast.

"You do realize you could have used the Impervius charm," Hermione stated matter-a-factly as she picked a sandwich off of a platter. Her normally bushy brown hair was a bit damp, but nowhere near as wet as the mess plastered to Ron's forehead.

Ron's face was dumbstruck, driblets of water dripping off the end of his long, freckled nose. Harry could hear Hermione snicker lightly at the sight of him.

"I look like I just jumped in the bloody Black Lake! Why didn't you tell me?" Ron's hands shot up in the air, sending out a rogue shower over some Ravenclaw students passing by.

Suddenly suspicious, perhaps after hearing Harry's poorly hidden laughter, Ron's eyes flicked between his two best friends.

"You too!?" he shouted betrayed at Harry's dry robes.

Ron chose not to respond with words, but rather dipped his hands in the bowl he'd been collecting water into and flung its contents at the two of them. Harry turned away just in time, but Hermione was caught square in the face, a squawk of indignation escaping her mouth.

Harry smiled to himself as the sound of his two bickering friends faded into the background. He turned his attention to the high table, noticing it was strangely vacant. Only Snape and Flitwick were in their seats, keeping a close eye over the students.

The former had largely ignored him since their altercation in Grimmauld Place, skipping over him in demonstrations and exchanging only a few tense words. Despite that, Harry could still feel Snape's piercing gaze burn into the back of his head during class, and he regularly made a point of partnering Harry with either Crabbe or Goyle, who took pleasure in using curses Snape had clearly not instructed the class to practice.

Flapping wings from overhead stole Harry's attention, as owls swooped in with their afternoon deliveries, dropping off letters and packages into waiting arms below.

The hall quietened, and Harry could see Hermione pulling off the twine of her copy of the Daily Prophet.

"Anyone we know die—" Ron asked the same question they always did, but was suddenly cut off by a sharp gasp from Hermione.

A lead weight dropped into the pit of his stomach, and Ron looked green.

Silently, her fingers trembling, Hermione passed the paper to Harry who read the headline: He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named Strikes as Abbott Home Is Attacked.

Under the headline was a photo of the burnt-out shell of a house, smoldering beneath the sickly green image of a skull pulsing with malice in the sky above it.

"Bugger me…" Harry heard Ron mutter from over his shoulder, "she's dead."

Scanning the rest of the article, Harry found the very plain, yet final words. Hannah Abbott's mother was dead, and her father was critically injured in St. Mungo's.

Instinctively, Harry turned his head around to the Hufflepuff table. He wasn't the only one, as it seemed that every student in the Great Hall was looking there as well, except for Draco who was desperately trying to peel himself away from Pansy as he left the hall.

The students were shaken. Several of Hannah Abbott's friends were hunched over sobbing, the rest of their housemates trying to huddle protectively around them. Hannah was noticeably absent, as was Susan Bones, her best friend.

"He's growing bolder," Harry said in a low voice. "No one is safe now."

The line had been drawn in the sand. Around them, Harry could see the way students were looking at one another. The war had been brought to Hogwarts.

Ron swallowed nervously and pointed to the date in the corner of the paper—October 31st, Halloween.

Harry pushed his plate away, sick to the stomach. "Voldemort planned this," he said, and several students around them shrieked at the name.

Taking out his wand Harry cast Muffliato, a spell from the Prince's book. A soft buzzing filled their ears, preventing them from being overheard.

"Voldemort wanted to send a message to me and the Ministry," Harry leaned in as he spoke. "It's why he used the Dark Mark."

"He doesn't want people to think about his first defeat when he's finally back," Hermione said carefully. "It's terrible, but smart."

"But why Hannah?" Ron pointed out, glancing quickly over his shoulder to the Hufflepuff table. "Her family is mostly pure-blooded, and they don't even work in the Ministry."

Hermione snatched the copy of the Daily Prophet from the table and scanned its pages quickly. Finding what she was looking for, she put the paper down and pointed to a passage. "It says here, her father was tortured extensively under the…" she paused, looking rather ill all of a sudden, before finishing, "the Cruciatus curse."

The three friends glanced at one another; an unspoken understanding shared between them.

"You don't think—" Ron started

Harry nodded solemnly. "It's why we haven't seen Neville today."

"But, how would they even know about Neville and Hannah. They're hardly obvious about fancying one another," Hermione said.

Turning his head to look over the Great Hall, something drew Harry's eye to the sulky figure of Pansy Parkinson sitting on her own.

Hermione must have noticed where he was staring, because when he turned back around again, she said resolutely, "You can't be serious, Harry! He's a bigot, yes, but he's only a student."

She looked over to Ron for support, but he was less convinced. "It's not like it would be hard to get in touch with her if he wanted. His family is pretty much all bloody evil and he's been acting suspicious lately."

"Just wait a minute," Hermione called, trying to get their attention. "Even if he was the one who told his Aunt, and if she was the one who attacked the Abbott's—"

"Of course, she was!" Harry protested.

"We don't know that," she replied shortly.

"We do!" Harry shouted, his frustration boiling over.

"Oi, stop yelling at Hermione mate!" Ron warned, gripping Harry's arm tightly.

Harry stopped and took several deep breaths to calm down. "I'm sorry," he apologized, though his mind was still racing.

Hermione looked at him with her gentle brown eyes. "I'm not against you, Harry. I'm saying that we don't have proof, and without any, there isn't much we can do even if we wanted to."

"It's true," Ron said and loosened his grip on Harry, patting him on the shoulder in a comforting way.

Harry couldn't sit there anymore. He was feeling restless. He needed to get up and do something. Reaching into his pocket, Harry pulled out the Marauders map and began scanning through the many floors and countless halls of Hogwarts.

"You're not planning on confronting Malfoy, are you?" Hermione asked nervously.

"Easy Hermione," Ron spoke up. "Harry's just looking for him, he's not going to murder him," he chuckled awkwardly and looked to Harry, "… right?"

"Curse, maybe," Harry muttered under his breath.

Nearly the entire school was in the Great Hall. He could see McGonagall and Slughorn in their respective offices, and curiously Crabbe and Goyle were up near the seventh floor of all places, but Malfoy wasn't with them. Harry couldn't find Malfoy anywhere on the map.

Just as he was about to give up his search, his eye caught the footsteps of Dumbledore, Neville, Hannah and Susan moving across the courtyard and towards the main gates.

Harry stood abruptly, closing the map and stowing it in his pocket.

"Harry!" Hermione called after him. She sounded worried.

"It's not Malfoy," he replied over his shoulder, running from the Great Hall.

He dashed outside, dodging around a collection of students playing Gobstones. The courtyard was mostly empty, making it easy for Harry to find the retreating party further out on the grounds. He only caught up with them just as they reached the main gates.

"Your aunt should be arriving any moment, Miss Abbott," Harry heard Dumbledore say as he ran his wand along the iron surface of the gate. The headmaster wore a subdued set of navy robes, so dark they almost looked black.

Harry felt the ground shake beneath his feet and a wave of magic wash over him as one of the locks clicked open.

"You have my utmost condolences. If you and your loved ones are ever in need, there will always be space for you in Hogwarts," Dumbledore continued in a sorrowful voice. He then turned away, his robes rippling in the cool autumn breeze, and returned to the castle, sparing Harry only the slightest glance as he passed by.

"She's not coming back," Susan Bones said to him softly, her eyes red with dried tears.

Harry watched Neville whisper something into Hannah's ear, and pull her tightly against his chest. He didn't know what made him come outside, but felt he needed to see this.

"Are you going to be okay?" Harry asked, finally looking to the girl at his side.

"Are any of us?" she said.

"Maybe you should go too?" he suggested. "It might be for the best."

She shook her head in refusal. "I need to here."

The crack of apparition pierced the air. Outside the boundaries of the gate, a middle-aged witch had arrived. Her eyes widened at the sight of Harry, before waving to Neville and Susan.

Hannah slowly detached herself and ran into her Aunt's waiting arms.

"Hannah," Harry called out, surprising even himself.

She stood there, some dozen or so feet off, utterly broken.

"I'll beat him, I promise you," Harry said for as much his sake as her own.

"I know you can, Harry," her small voice whispered, carried by the wind.

And just for a second he believed her.

The warmth of the hearth in the common room had no effect on him. He was cold, an emptiness freezing over him from the inside.

He'd skipped the Halloween feast, choosing instead to get lost in the glowing embers of the fire; reminiscing on simpler times and memories that could have been.

"Harry!" Ron's voice caught his attention as he approached from across the common room with Hermione. "Are you coming with us?"

"Where?" Harry asked.

"He doesn't know about it," Hermione told Ron before turning to him and explaining, "the D.A. is getting together tonight."

"We—uh, thought it would be a good way of boosting moral after what happened today," Ron said, glancing over to Hermione.

A part of Harry wanted to go spend time with his friends and take his mind off things, but then he thought of all the schoolwork he still had to do. Flitwick wouldn't be so understanding forever, and McGonagall would surely dock points or hand him a detention soon.

"Sorry, tonight is just not a good time," he told his friends. He didn't enjoy seeing the disappointment on their faces. "Have fun for me," he added with a smile.

He watched as his friends left through the portrait hole, and just as he was about to reach into his bag for his Charms textbook, he felt someone walk up behind him. Leaning his head over the edge of the couch, Harry saw his Quidditch teammate, Demelza Robins.

"Hi Harry," she waved shyly, "sorry to bother you."

Pushing the thoughts of his yet-to-be-done charms homework from his head, Harry turned to face her and said, "No problem, Ron and Hermione just left for the D.A. if that's what you were wondering."

"Oh, um, I'm not going tonight. I need to finish some Charms homework… it's not my best subject," she admitted with a flush.

"Do you need any help?" Harry asked. "I was actually about to do some Charms myself. I'm quite good at them, and I'm sure Flitwick gave you an assignment we did last year."

Demelza shot a nervous look at Romilda Vane, who was staring daggers at her from across the room. "No, no, it's okay. I've actually got a tutoring session in the library, Cho Chang said she'd skip the meeting to help me."

"Don't let me hold you up then," Harry replied quickly.

"The reason I stopped by is—" she reached into her bag and pulled out a note with long, loopy handwriting "—Professor Dumbledore wanted me to give this to you. I've been trying to catch you all day, but with everything going on…"

"Thanks a lot, Demelza," Harry said with an understanding smile, "and good luck with your Charms!"

Dear Harry,

On nights like these, I find that it is best to share a drink with those you care about. I would be happy if you could join me this evening in an attempt to confront the past and build towards a brighter future.

Yours sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

P.S. You will find me at the second finest establishment in all of Hogsmeade. I anticipate you can find your own way out of the school.

Harry laughed, and tossed the note into the flames. It turned out his Charms homework would have to wait another day.

He quickly ran up to his dorm and threw on a heavy cloak overtop the white shirt of his uniform he was still wearing. After exiting the portrait of the Fat Lady, Harry descended the stairs and slipped into a hidden alcove to put on his father's invisibility cloak. The hallways were mostly abandoned, but he didn't want to have to risk explaining why he was trying to sneak out to Hogsmeade.

It was a good thing he did, as he nearly ran into both Professor Flitwick and Professor Babbling on the way to the statue of the One-Eyed Witch.

"Dissendium," Harry whispered, tapping the stone with his wand, and the statue shifted just far enough for him to squeeze through.

He travelled along the dark, musty tunnel for what felt like half an hour before reaching a trap door at its end. Listening against the wood, Harry didn't hear any activity within the cellar and creeped out.

With the days running shorter as Autumn marched along its way, the sun had already set, and the main street of Hogsmeade was brightly lit. Harry, still under the invisibility cloak, passed the Three Broomsticks and its lively patronage, followed by Zonko's Joke Shop and Madam Puddifoot's.

The noise slowly faded away the further he walked through the village, the light growing dimmer and the air colder as well. He was approaching the edge of Hogsmeade, nearly at the path to the Shrieking Shack, when he spotted the tall figure of Dumbledore standing outside a rundown old building, staring up into the sky.

"The Three Broomsticks too busy for you, sir?" Harry asked, pulling off his cloak to reveal himself.

Dumbledore gave him a kindly grin as he passed over a bottle of Butterbeer, holding another in his gloved hand. "The drinks are cheaper at the Hog's Head," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "The butterbeer should taste the same, if not a bit stale."

Harry's teeth were chattering, and he took a large swig, letting the warmth of the foam fill him up from the inside.

"Tell me Harry, how well versed are you in apparation?" Dumbledore asked.

Harry looked to Dumbledore oddly. "Not very, sir," he admitted. "I've only side-along apparated, and Ministry lessons don't start until later in the year."

Dumbledore stood silent for a moment. "Do you know much about it?"

"I remember Fred and George talking about the three D's," Harry said. The twins had spent an afternoon bragging about their newfound ability during their summer stay at Grimmauld Place last year.

"Destination, Determination, and Deliberation," Dumbledore chuckled to himself. "The Ministry can be quite clever when they want to be." Having noticed the both of them had finished their drinks, Dumbledore vanished the two empty bottles. "Do you think you could apparate, Harry?"

"Don't I need to have my license, sir?"

"I suppose that would be the legal way of doing things." Dumbledore smiled not-to-innocently. "However, it simply is a formality. As long as you are not caught apparating in the wrong place at the wrong time, I see no harm in you knowing."

"You're going to teach me here?" Harry looked between Dumbledore and the rotting sign of the Hog's Head, hanging lopsided on a single chain.

"Could you name a better place?" he asked.

"Perhaps someplace not as cold," Harry suggested, and Dumbledore laughed.

"Don't trouble yourself, Harry. I feel as though it won't take us long," he said with a knowing gleam in his eyes.

Dumbledore led Harry to the back of the old inn, where a rickety gate opened into what looked like an animal pen. "There used to be goats back here once upon a time," Dumbledore commented.

"Now, apparation can be quite tricky," he continued almost immediately. "Many witches and wizards don't bother with it at all, simply because they can't learn it. Now, do you remember what the ministry method is?" Dumbledore asked, to which Harry nodded. "Good, forget it."

Harry shook his head in disbelief.

"The Ministry method, or the three D's as you like to say, are a streamlined, Ministry approved method to learn how to apparate. Your friends will hear all about the benefits of this method and how it was perfected by Ministry experts during their official lessons. I'm sure you know just how affective Ministry approved material is…"

"About as affective as trying to use a stick for a wand," Harry replied.

"Precisely," Dumbledore's eyes shined in amusement. "The Ministry method is blunt, forceful, and involves gathering and releasing as much of your magic at once. That is why we so often hear a deafening crack in conjunction with it." Dumbledore offered his arm and said, "Grab hold Harry, and tell me what you feel."

The moment Harry touched Dumbledore's sleeve, he felt an uncomfortable pull, before reappearing beside a shed across the pen.

"I felt a pull, like I was a string unravelling on the spot and was being led to the shed where I was put together again," Harry said, closing his eyes trying to remember the sensation.

"Aptly put, my boy, I did not expect any less." There was a keen look on Dumbledore's old face. "You mentioned a string and a pull, might I push you further into deducing what that sensation was."

Harry bit his lip in thought. He distinctly remembered the feeling of a loose thread being pulled, but afterwards it felt as if he was being blown by the wind or pulled along the waves of the ocean. There was a natural path he had followed, one that already existed in and around him.

"Magic," Harry stated causing Dumbledore to perk up. "It was like I was following the seams of magic in the space around me."

The blue in Dumbledore's eyes was practically glowing. "Our world is filled with magic, and it is a shame so many are blind to its beauty. For those like you and me, Harry, who see and feel the power around us, we can use and manipulate it to our advantage."

"Why is this not the method taught at Hogwarts?" Harry enquired.

"Alas, not everyone is you, Harry," Dumbledore said simply. "This method, although more efficient, is far trickier than what the Ministry teaches. There is a reason the three D's are taught to the masses."

Dumbledore sent Harry a wink before taking two steps to his left. "Would you be so kind as to apparate back to where we were before?"

Harry shifted his feet nervously. "Now?" he asked.

"Yes, anytime this evening would be agreeable, though the sooner the better. Remember what you told me," he advised.

Harry took a deep breath to center himself and gripped his wand at his side.

"Ah, I knew I had forgotten something. Your wand please Harry," Dumbledore said, putting out his hand expectantly.

Harry swallowed, rolling his wand between his fingers. "Er—don't I need it, sir?"

"Why would you need it, if you are capable of apparating without?" Dumbledore responded sagely.

Harry reluctantly passed it over.

Doing his best to feel the magic around him, Harry closed his eyes and thought back to the moment where he stood in the center of the storm at the orphanage. He could feel the wind whipping violently across his face and the magic saturating the air.

Like a seeker snatching after a snitch, Harry latched on to seam of magic that flew past him and followed along as he felt himself slowly unravel. He was floating in space, conscious without a body, and for a split second he panicked when the image of his destination did not appear.

Forcing the image of the pen back into his mind, he landed harshly on the ground with a loud crack.

Opening his eyes slowly, he found himself standing near the gate and went to wipe the sweat off his brow. However, the sweat on his brow remained untouched, stinging his eyes as it dripped behind his glasses. He made to wipe it again, but his arm never moved.

"It seems you left something behind," Dumbledore said holding a stitch in his side, and pointed to where a floating arm—his arm—rested in the air.

Harry's mouth fell open wordlessly.

Still laughing, Dumbledore twisted his wand around in a series of complicated twirls, and there was a terrible slurping sound just as Harry felt his arm pop back into its rightful place.

Rotating his arm as if it were a windmill, Harry tested it extensively making sure it wouldn't fall off again.

"An admirable first attempt Harry, but you lacked faith. You must have faith in yourself and the magic around you if you are ever to make it to your destination one piece." Harry grimaced, unconsciously touching his arm. "One more time, Harry, back to me," Dumbledore prompted.

Closing his eyes, Harry was able to feel the magic around him much easier. It felt more natural—instinctive, this time. Like the rivers or roads on a map he was able to trace it in his mind and grab hold. He felt himself being pulled along, just as the image of a shed flashed into his mind. Rather than forcing himself to his destination, he felt his body unify as it did with Dumbledore, and with scarce a sound he reappeared again.

He heard the light sound of clapping behind him.

"Wonderfully done, Harry!"

"Thank you, sir," he replied gratefully. "Beside the lack of sound, are there other advantages to this form of apparition?"

"There are a few I can count, but I am certain there are even more than I know of," Dumbledore admitted as he passed back Harry's wand. "Distances aren't so great when carried by magic, and I have found that following its trails in apparation has made it rather difficult to keep me out of places I should not be."

Dumbledore paused and looked off to the sky, his silver beard shimmering in the moonlight. He then pulled out a gold pocket watch with far more faces and dials than necessary and said, "The night is still young, and we have only just acquired our transportation for this evening. If we are quick enough, we might just be in time for some tea and dessert."

"Where are we going, sir?"

"Godric's Hollow."

They arrived in a darkened alley just off the main square of a small town, hidden from the eyes of passing muggles.

"Don't worry about our clothes, Harry, we will fit right in," Dumbledore said as they strode out into the open.

He wasn't lying. Parents and children and teenagers alike wandered about town, dressed for Halloween. Dumbledore was stopped more than a few times in congratulations of his fantastic costume, to which he graciously thanked his fans.

Harry scoffed internally, as if the man needed any more reason to dress outrageously.

The crowds thinned as they pushed on through to a tall obelisk dominating the center of the square. The closer they drew, it appeared as if the obelisk was shimmering in the air, and when they were only feet from it, the obelisk morphed into a statue of a young couple lovingly huddled together.

It was only when he spotted the baby held in their arms, that Harry was brought to a stop.

His breath hitched and a puff of air escaped his mouth. Something stung at his eyes. It was hard for him to believe what he was seeing. He half stumbled and half ran towards the statue eternally depicting Lily and James Potter—his family—staring down at him with love carved into their stone eyes.

"They wished to commission a piece in honor of the Boy-Who-Lived," Dumbledore's somber voice reached his ears. "I managed to convince Millicent, the Minister at the time, to make the sculpture in honor of the Potter's… the way I knew they truly were."

It was only as they were moving to leave, where Harry noticed his hand had intertwined with those of his parents.

Together, the two wizards passed in front of a quaint white church and through a set of kissing gates, which led into a cemetery. An odd assortment of magical and muggle tombs filled the burial ground, ranging from those cut freshly from granite to some so old the names and dates were lost to time.

He was drawn to a worn slab of stone nestled within the ground; an odd symbol of a triangle was engraved in its center.

"The grave of one of you ancestors," said Dumbledore as he stepped behind his student.

Harry was surprised to hear that. He couldn't make out the whole name, but it definitely did not say Potter.

"Ignotus Peverell," Dumbledore continued as if reading Harry's mind. "An ancient family linked with folklore and the greater mysteries of magic. You have him to thank for that wonderful cloak of yours."

Harry's hand dug into his pocket and felt along its silky material. He thought he could almost feel it pulsing with life.

"How was he related to me?" he asked.

"The last daughter from his line married a Potter, and the cloak has been passed father to son since. At least, that was what James told me when he lent me the cloak before your parents went into hiding."

Harry knew his cloak was old, but he had no idea it was that old. Everything he'd learnt about invisibility cloaks referenced them lasting only a handful of years. Why was his cloak so special?

"One day I'm sure you will be passing on the cloak to a son of your own, just as James wanted to do for you. There wasn't a day that went by without Sirius and James bragging about you for one reason or another," he said, a melancholic smile graced Dumbledore's lip.

A chill settled over the air, sending a shiver down Harry's spine as he continued past the rows of tombstones. Dumbledore had stopped behind him moments before, but his eye was drawn to a single grave separated from the rest. There was something tragic about the white marble tomb that shone in the darkness.

They were laid together, Harry noticed as his legs carried him off the stone path and onto the uncut grass, leaves crunching beneath his feet. It wasn't what he had been expecting, though in all honesty he didn't know what to expect to begin with.

They were so young, he thought to himself upon reading the inscription. Hardly older than he was now. And they gave their lives for mine…

"The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death." It read beneath their names. He found the words to be fitting. There was a poetic truth to them he could not deny. He thought his parents would have liked it.

A breeze brushed his hair, caressing the back of his neck and ears. It wasn't cool like the autumn wind, but gentle and comforting.

He closed his eyes, and imagined they were there next to him. "I'll come back," he promised with a whisper. "I'll come back when all of this is over, and you'll be proud of me."

Harry pushed himself to his feet and doubled back to where Dumbledore stood and stared unblinkingly at a twin pair of headstones. The old wizard's posture was hunched, and his head dipped in what looked like shame.

"My mother and my sister," Dumbledore spoke, his voice raw. "I haven't visited in many, many years. My brother kindly reminds me of this fact whenever I see him."

Harry kept silent. It was a rare occasion where Dumbledore spoke of his family.

"They died a lifetime ago, Harry, and I have always been a private man," he supplied, seemingly reading Harry's thoughts.

"You grieve them still," Harry said after a long pause.

"There is not a day that goes by when I do not," he replied solemnly. "But that is only natural when one feels responsible for the loss of loved ones, wouldn't you agree?"

Harry nodded, thinking of Sirius.

"You mentioned a brother…" Harry trailed off.

"Aberforth," Dumbledore chuckled in an odd way. "My younger brother, although he is not quite so young anymore." He scratched the crook of his nose. "We were at his bar earlier this evening."

"Surely that can't be him?" Harry said, remembering the large, grizzled wizard who manned the Hog's Head Inn.

Dumbledore let out a genuine laugh at Harry's disbelief. "Oh yes, as different as night and day we are, but brothers all the same. He is not the gentlest of men, but don't let that fool you, Harry, he still an adequate wizard. Aberforth simply chose the quiet life our father always craved."

Harry glanced down to look at the headstones, noticing now that one was missing.

"My father was buried on Azkaban upon his death," Dumbledore filled in. Harry could practically feel the heartache in his words.

"Were you never able to claim his body?"

"The graves on the island are unmarked," he answered. "I suppose I could have eventually found his remains if I dug around enough, but I believe it is for the best if some of the spirits there remain untouched."

"I wanted to thank you, Harry," Dumbledore said after another pause.

Harry looked to his headmaster with interest and asked, "For what, sir?"

"I would not have had the strength to come here tonight if not for you," he explained, pride gleaming within the tears in his eyes. "The past is a beautiful and terrible thing, and my own is one I have run from for far too long. It was time for me to confront my demons and make piece before it was too late, and I have you to thank for accepting my invitation."

"It was nothing, sir. I'm glad I accepted. This," Harry gestured around them, "was special for me. Sirius had mentioned Godric's Hollow in passing, but I never knew how much I needed to visit until now."

"My family had once lived here—it was where I grew up," Dumbledore said. "We lived just a few streets over. My sister… Arianna… she was the joy of our family, the apple of my mother and father's eye. But Aberforth doted on her most of all."

Dumbledore breathed deeply as though building his will to continue.

"Everything changed after my sister's attack. My father was gone, my mother was a shell of what she used to be, and my sister's magic had turned inwards. She hated what she had become and lashed out in horrible ways." Dumbledore stroked his long beard with a trembling hand. "Aberforth was best at controlling, she loved him most of all. But our luck ran out one day, when Arianna accidently killed our mother in one of her fits. It was no one's fault but my own."

"Why do you blame yourself, sir? There wasn't anything you could have done. You were still a student at the time, weren't you?"

"It is not so much my inaction that burdens me, my dear boy, but my attitude towards my poor sister," Dumbledore answered, his voice weighed with buried regret. "I resented Arianna for her condition and what it did to our family. I was a star student, proclaimed to be a prodigy not even a year into Hogwarts. I felt as though I was bringing notoriety back to the Dumbledore name after my father's scandal, but at the same time my family was hording this dark secret.

"No matter what award I won, discovery I made, or article I published, people still spoke of the sad little Dumbledore girl who had no magic, and the poor muggleborn mother who didn't know how to properly raise her children. I threw myself deeper into my studies, searching for glory, while letting Aberforth piece together the scraps that was our home. I was proud, I was vain, and I tore my family apart."

Dumbledore did not speak for some time after that, so lost in the memory and pain of his youth.

They eventually left the cemetery and made their way to the main square of the village, now empty of the previous crowd. It was here, where Dumbledore pulled out his gold pocket watch to check the time again.

"If I am not mistaken, we have timed it just right," Dumbledore's tone was jolly, not a hint of his previous grief present. In the blink of an eye, the powerful, confident man returned, and he took the lead as he led the pair of them down the narrow, winding streets of Godric's Hollow.

Dumbledore paused at an intersection before turning to Harry. "Down this road is where your parents lived." He pointed to a street that turned towards the edge of town.

Dread coiled deep in his gut, as the unspoken question hung in the air.

"No," he answered as his stomach flip-flopped. "I don't need to see it. Maybe one day when this is all over… but not now."

Dumbledore smiled at him kindly, before continuing on his chosen path. "A wise choice. You will find no answers there, only darkness. The house remains in its damaged state—another monument of the Ministry. I must admit I am partial to the one we visited earlier. It serves as a better reminder of what we live for."

Together they finally approached a rundown old home, which stood next to a vacant lot. Dumbledore let himself in, the door creaking behind him. They found themselves inside a small living space crammed full of books everywhere the eye could see.

With a flick of his wand, Dumbledore lit a lamp at the end of the hall just a crooked old woman in an ancient nightgown came hobbling down the stairs. She stopped at the bottom step, before slowly turning around having noticed she wasn't alone.

"Albus?" her voice croaked from lack of use. "Albus is that you?"

"Hello Bathilda," he responded.

"Oh, Albus it has been years since I last saw you." The woman waddled up to him with more speed than Harry thought she could manage. "You caught me again, haven't you?"

"You were always fond of your midnight snacks, Bathilda." Dumbledore took the old woman by the hand and led her to what Harry guessed was the kitchen but looked more like a second library. "I recall my sweet tooth had me joining you more often than not each evening."

"I never could pass up on some treacle tart before bed," she said as she took a seat at a small wooden table and levitated over a tray of desserts. "Who is the young lad with you?" she asked, peering at Harry who stood in the shadow of the doorway.

"Ah, Harry, I would like you to meet Bathilda Bagshot. I'm sure you have read her history textbook," Dumbledore introduced the two as he took a cup of tea and a strawberry tart.

"It's nice to meet you ma'am," Harry inclined his head politely. "Your book has helped me a loads in history class."

"I had to make a good one, didn't I? Binns is worthless and I couldn't let generations of students fail history and forget the lessons of the past."

Harry moved to take a seat at the table, and when he stepped into the light of the kitchen Bathilda's eyes widened. "Little Harry Potter?" she whispered and looked to Dumbledore for confirmation.

"Yes, er… I'm Harry," he answered awkwardly, seeing an amused smile spread across Dumbledore's face.

"You look so much like your father did… Oh! And you have Lily's beautiful eyes," she repeated the words he'd heard so many times before. "I used to stop by to visit when you were just a baby." She watched Harry pick up a large piece of treacle tart from the tray.

"You like treacle tart, do you?" she asked with a wrinkled smile.

"It's my favorite," Harry coughed between bites.

"Well of course it is, I used to sneak you pieces whenever your parents weren't looking. James caught me once, but he told me he didn't care as long as I took the blame when Lily found out," she let out a wheezing laugh. "Your parents were such lovely young people, it's a shame what happened."

Harry didn't know what to say to that and picked up another piece of treacle instead.

"But they made you," she picked up again, "and what a child you turned out to be. You were doing accidental magic so early and so often I knew you would be great. Just as great as Mein Schatz."

Harry noticed Dumbledore tense across the table.

"Thank you, that's… very kind," he said, not knowing what she was talking about.

"I dream of him often, Mein Schatz, and the times when I wasn't so lonely," she continued, ignoring Harry and looking directly at Dumbledore. "It was so much fun having two young men around, who were just as fascinated by history as I was. Although, you always were more interested in folktales and legends of old. Did you ever find what you were looking for Albus?"

Dumbledore sat still as stone, and his blue eyes slowly looked down to the glove on his hand before moving back up and resting on Harry. He shook his head and said, "In truth… I never did."

"A shame…" Bathilda spoke up after finishing her tea, "I never found if Mein Schatz did either." She reached a shaky hand underneath the neckline of her shirt and pulled out a silver chain inlaid with a small photograph.

Squinting, Harry leaned in and managed to make out the appearance of a willowy young boy, with blonde hair and a serious look on his handsome face.

"He was such a sweet boy, I never found out what caused—"

Before Bathilda could finish, a glowing ball of white light shot into the room before coalescing into the shape of a tabby cat.

"Albus, you are needed at once," McGonagall's panicked voice filled the air, "there's been an emergency. Pansy Parkinson has been attacked."