"On this spot, on the night of 31 October 1981,

Lily and James Potter lost their lives.

Their son, Harry, remains the only living wizard

ever to have survived the Killing Curse.

This house, invisible to muggles, has been left

in its ruined state as a monument to the Potters

and as a reminder of the violence that tore apart their family."

Footprints in the Snow (Part 3): HERMIONE

I reread the plaque a second time just to make sure it was really there and I didn't imagine it sprouting from the dirt like some kind of bizarre plant. There were tiny notes and messages scribbled around the words, written in Everlasting Ink or deeply carved into the wood. The newest of them stood out boldly in different colours and handwriting, some nearly florescent in the dim light. I read a few ranging from 'Bless your pure souls' to 'Long Live the Boy-Who-Lived'.

"This is brilliant," I heard Harry say, as he peered closer to read some of the smaller writing. I could almost hear the smile in his voice. A moment ago I would have sworn he would never smile again but now he was beaming at messages of complete strangers

Harry smiled even more tightly, having possibly noticed I was looking. No, scratch that. He definitely knew I was looking. Too bad that smile would fool anyone but me.

The house was standing so to speak but most of it laid in shambles on the snow. Ivy twisted in intricate patterns along weather beaten walls, drawing attention to years' worth of erosion and decay. The lawn was terribly overgrown with dead weeds and I could make out bits of debris strewn across what must have been, at some point, a well-kept garden. I could spot dark shadows of a hole in the roof and if I squinted, I could also see a light dusting of soot around the hole's splintered edges.

Tall willows hung around that part of the house like they were hiding some sort of shameful secret. Shingles creaked and swung loosely in the winter wind. I pulled Harry's Invisibility Cloak tighter around me. It kept out most of the cold but it couldn't keep out the exhaustion swimming in my vision.

Just as I was about to open my mouth to tell Harry it was time to leave, the sound of shifting snow behind us caught my attention. He must have heard it too because he turned in the direction of the noise with his wand drawn. A figure was hobbling at an achingly slow pace. It was slumped and darkly silhouetted against the light of the distant town square and flashing decorations. I couldn't make out a face but I thought it was a woman. A very old woman, judging by the way she shuffled.

'Here we go,' I thought. It almost didn't matter that she was coming towards people she shouldn't be able to see unless the definition of "Invisibility Cloak" changed without my notice.

She stopped a few yards away, near enough so I could see the sketchy details of her face. Her eyes stared past us, at a house that she shouldn't be able to see if she was muggle. Her sunken gaze raked across the structure slowly, as if it hadn't been there for decades, before settling so sharply on Harry that I shivered. She could definitely see us.

She lifted an arm and beckoned us closer. My throat was suddenly as dry as blank parchment.

"You think she knows?" I asked the question that didn't need an answer. My shaking fingers tugged on the arm of Harry's sleeve until he nodded and she beckoned us again. His voice was loud and clear as he spoke.

"Are you Ms. Bagshot?" he asked. The woman nodded at the mention of her name, and beckoned us once more. It's no wonder she could see us through the Cloak, then. Dumbledore must have given her something that could bypass its charm. I never knew such a thing existed but if it did, then he would surely know.

Harry turned to me, eyebrows quirked in question. I shrugged and he must have taken that as permission to follow some strange old woman to only Merlin knew where in the middle of the night. No, especially in the middle of the night. He stepped forward and she turned immediately, almost mechanically, and hobbled back up the sidewalk. My eyes met Harry's but this time, he was the one who shrugged.

She led us past several houses, never once turning back to check if we were still following. Even though I only met her five minutes before, she disturbed me more than any portrait in the Black residence. Just the way she was walking – stiff and curt, one gnarled hand clutching to her purse – was strange. Her other set of fingers were wrapped around the handle of an umbrella, which she was using as a makeshift cane. She was swaddled in layers of multicoloured shawls and wraps, I noticed.

We walked until she turned up the path of an old little home. The weeds there were overgrown but even though her yard looked like it was competing with the one at Potter's Cottage, her house seemed to have fared much better. There were no holiday lights glittering and no merry decorations to brighten up the place but it was only in a state of slight disrepair. Everything still looked bleak, though. And ancient.

The harsh clinking of keys brought my attention back to the mysterious woman. Her fingers were rigid and I was tempted to help her push the door open but after a particularly hard shove, it gave in.

The room smelt terrible. Or maybe she did. Either way I felt the urge to hold my nose and gag as the stench clung to the back of my throat. I ended up keeping my arms to my side as to not be rude.

Harry pulled the Cloak from over us and we slid into her home, neither of us wanting to get too close to her. She closed the door and locked it with a click. We were swallowed by darkness, with only the dim light from an uncurtained window to see by. Anxiety crept up from my toes all the way to the top of my head, and lingered. This felt wrong. Very wrong.

Bathilda stood a bit straighter and leaned in closely to study Harry's face. He was still under Polyjuice but she stared all the same. Her skin, tinged a slight blue, was wrinkled and dotted with misshapen liver spots. And it really was her that smelt bad. I could tell when she unwound the moth-eaten shawls from her head. She was balding, almost as bad as Harry's current disguise.

"Bathilda?" She didn't even blink. In fact, she hadn't blinked the whole time I was studying her. She nodded at the mention of her name again but the action was delayed. Was it just the lighting in here or did her skin look oddly transparent?

I saw Harry's hand twitched towards his neck, where the Locket sat. He stopped the movement almost immediately and I kept the question off my face. Bathilda would have missed both of these things anyway because she chose that moment to push past me and shuffle into what I guessed was a tiny sitting room. I wanted to ask about the Locket but thought better of it in case she overheard.

We stood there awkwardly, looking at the peeling wallpaper and dust encrusted carpet.

"I don't understand –"

"I know, I know. Just bear with it a little longer," Harry whispered back. "She's a bit out of it, that's all."

"Come!" she said from the other room. Her voice was low and wispy and crawled under my skin like a swarm of bugs. Or a nest of snakes. I clutched at Harry's hand more desperately, pleading with my eyes that we ought to leave right then and never look back.

"Relax," he said, leading me towards the room her voice floated from. I glared my urgency but painted on a smile when Bathilda came into view. I didn't think she noticed the pained grin.

The woman held a match in one hand and stumbled about lighting candles. The room was cluttered and dirty, almost like no one's been in it for a while. It certainly smelt like it. The stench of old age and mildew was so thick that I found myself in a coughing fit. Bathilda either didn't hear me or didn't care. The candles were everywhere, on top of books, on neglected coffee tables, the floor, in old cups, and just about every other available surface. Harry offered to finish lighting the rest of them. He moved much quicker but stopped at a table holding old frames. I couldn't see the pictures from here but Harry seemed interested in them enough to cast a dusting charm.

"Who is this?" he asked, holding one out in front of him. Bathilda wasn't paying attention. She was too busy staring me down like she just realized I was present. I busied myself with lighting the fireplace so I didn't have to look at her.

"Ms. Bagshot?" Harry called out, louder than necessary. I could hear the growing annoyance. He was quickly losing his patience, and so was I. "Do you know this person? This one right here. What's his name?"

She still didn't look at the picture and chose instead to contemplate a point just above Harry's shoulder. He practically shoved the frame in her hand. "Bathilda!"

"What are you doing?" I whispered when his efforts for an answer grew more frantic. I didn't know why I tried keeping my voice down. Even though the lady acted like she had a hearing problem, I was nearly certain she could hear everything we said just fine.

"This picture looks like the thief! The one who stole the Elder Wand!" He turned back to Bathilda. "Please, try to remember who this is! Please!"

She didn't even blink. Harry stalked back to the rest of the picture frames, silently seething.

"Excuse me, Ms. Bagshot? Why did you ask us to come here? Do you have something for us? Anything at all?"

She didn't acknowledge me. She couldn't seem to focus her eyes a minute ago but now her stare was locked on Harry, and his was locked on hers. He was standing a few feet away, arms crossed and jaw working as he thought. I could tell he was making a conscious effort to not tap his feet. Bathilda took a step towards him and jerked her head in the direction of the staircase. The terrible sense of dread was twisting in my stomach now. It made me sick.

"You want us to leave?" he asked. She repeated the gesture again, pointing at the stairs, herself, and then him.

"Oh… Emilie, I think she wants me to go upstairs with her." I was sure she already knew who we were but sticking to our false names was the safest route.

"Okay, let's –"

The old woman lifted a gnarled hand and shook her head to stop me from advancing. She pointed to herself and then to Harry.

"Oh, she doesn't want me to come with you," I interpreted. This was a bad idea. A very bad idea.

Harry must've heard the worry in my voice. "Maybe Dumbledore told her to only give the Sword to me."

It seemed like no amount of pleading with my eyes was going to get him to leave the Sword alone. His eyes flitted to Bathilda before shooting me a look. He mouthed "Five minutes." I mouthed "Three."

"Dumbledore would've trusted me, wouldn't he?" I asked aloud in a last ditch attempt. The old woman stood unmoving in the middle of the floor. She was back to ignoring me again. My fingers were pulling at a loose thread in my coat. "Fine then. Be quick."

"Okay Bathilda, lead the way," Harry said, sweeping his arms in a grand gesture towards the staircase. She began shuffling towards it. Harry followed after her and tossed a reassuring smile over his shoulder. I did not smile back.

They creaked their way up and I was left alone in the middle of the room. There were ancient looking armchairs dotted about but they were cluttered with a multitude of possessions. Half-knitted jumpers, stained tea coasters, and blankets covered the one nearest to me. I didn't bother cleaning it off just to take a seat. I didn't expect to be there that long anyway.

'Well, at least there's a bookshelf,' I thought. I barely had the time to skim the titles before my ears tuned into an odd noise coming from upstairs.

Thump.

I looked up at the ceiling, which was ridiculous because I couldn't just stand there and see through layers of plaster and wood. By the time I heard a crash and a muffled yell, I was already racing up the stairs, taking them two at a time. They groaned loudly under my feet but I didn't pause to wonder if they'd hold. I gripped the railing and pulled myself up the last couple. I told him something was wrong. I bloody told him.

The walkway I stepped into was pitch dark. Heart racing and mind on high alert, I looked around and frantically tried to pinpoint where the sounds were coming from.

"Hermione!" A voice rasped. My neck snapped toward the sound so fast I'd definitely be feeling it later.

I shoved a shaky hand in my pocket and felt for my wand whilst fumbling for the doorknob at the same time. The door opened. My heart stopped.