Disclaimer: This chapter contains scenes and dialogue from HPatDH, specifically Ch. 16 (Godric's Hollow) and Ch. 17 (Bathilda's Secret). As always, credit goes to JKR for creating the universe and characters first.

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Even after the days of training, Hermione was nervous. She had finally agreed to go to Godric's Hollow. There was no way around the fact that Dumbledore had intended for them to visit the small magical village. Everything pointed at the sword of Gryffindor being stashed somewhere in the founder's birthplace.

Regardless of how absolutely obvious it was…

Voldemort's minions were waiting in the shadows for them to show. She was sure of it. Of course, Harry would seek out his parents' graves. They were the last physical connection he had to the pair of virtual strangers. The people who had given their lives to try to protect him from his inevitable fate. His mother's sacrifice ensured his survival for the next fourteen years… At least against her murderer. None of the other life-threatening shenanigans he managed to get himself out of were covered by the mysterious ancient magic.

She scanned the deserted alleyway from under the invisibility cloak and waited for any signs of their sudden infiltration being detected. When they never came Hermione gave a soft sigh of relief and giggled as the contained heat made Harry's glasses fog up. The first step to their haphazard scheming had gone according to plan.

They were not quite so lucky when it came to the second step. They hadn't accounted for a fresh blanket of snow to be covering the picture-perfect locale. The cottages across from them were enveloped in the stuff, Christmas decorations twinkled in their windows, shining a soft glow onto the equally obscured road.

"Ugh! Why didn't we think of snow? After all of our precautions, we will leave prints!" Hermione whispered. "We'll just have to get rid of them… You go first, I'll do it…"

"Let's take off the cloak," Harry said casually, and when she went to argue he interrupted. "Oh, come on! We don't look like us and there's no one around."

After some convincing, she and her companion started out of their hidden alcove without the cloak as added protection. They were polyjuiced to look like a couple of middle-aged muggles she had nicked hairs from the last time she had chanced a foodrun. If the pair remained inconspicuous, they wouldn't have anything to worry about.

Arm in arm, to portray a couple in love, they made their way towards the brightly lit town center. The small square was strung with colored lights with a windblown Christmas tree right in the middle that partially hid a war memorial from view. Several shops, a post office, a pub, and a little church all lined the hub of commotion.

There were villagers still running about, their figures briefly illuminated by the streetlamps as they made their way to their destinations. Hermione turned as a burst of laughter and music shattered the picturesque scene as someone left the pub and then whipped around as a carol sounded from inside the church.

"Harry, I think it's Christmas Eve…" Hermione said as off-handley as she could muster. It had been weeks since they had gotten their hands on a newspaper, muggle or wizarding, and the date surprised her.

"Is it?"

"I think so… Why else would so many other people be out at this time?" She whispered as a witch rushed past them in a hurry. Her scrutinizing gaze settled on the graveyard that sat behind the festive stones of worship. "They… They will be in there, won't they? Your mum and dad."

Harry looked to where her attention had shifted. All color drained from his face and he visibly paled under the dim lights from the closest streetlamp. It was apparent that fear had replaced the excitement he had felt at the prospect of his lifelong dream being fulfilled and rooted him to the spot.

Knowing he would never forgive himself if he waived the opportunity, Hermione slipped her hand into his and gently led him forward. Halfway across the square she noticed something out of the corner of her eye and stopped dead in her tracks, "Harry look…"

The war memorial had transformed with an obelisk curved in names into a statue of three people: a man with untidy hair and glasses, a woman with a pretty face smiling down at the baby in her arms. Snow lay atop their heads like fluffy white caps.

Harry stepped closer to study the faces of his parents and the tiny scarless infant for quite some time. Eventually, he turned back to her, his voice gruff with emotion as he whispered, "C'mon."

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Hermione tightened her grip on Harry's arm and stared silently at the stooped figure that stood a couple of feet away from them. They had just finished placing a wreath of christmas roses on his parents' tombstone and headed out to try to find Bathilda Bagshot's home when they'd stumbled upon the ruins of the cottage Harry had spent the first year of his life. The place where he had escaped death. While they were busy reading the well-wishes left by supporters, an ancient witch had appeared at their side. She shouldn't have been able to see them, considering they were back under the protection of the invisibility cloak.

And yet a gloved hand, twisted with arthritis, beckoned to them...

"How does she know?" Hermione whispered under her breath to her mystified companion.

He shook his head, clearly as confused by the unexpected development as she was. The gnarled hand beckoned more vigorously as the hunched woman waited for them to acknowledge her.

Hermione wondered if the crone was the being she had sensed in the graveyard. If so, why had she followed them all this way? Was it possible that they had happened upon the valid reasoning behind their dangerous visit? Had Dumbledore told her to wait for them?

With no warning, Harry spoke the question that was on the tip of her own tongue. "Are you Bathilda?"

The figure nodded and beckoned yet again.

Harry looked to her for confirmation and she gave a tiny shrug of consent. They stepped towards the woman and, at once, she turned and hobbled off back the way they had come. Leading them past several homes, she stopped at a gate. They followed her up the front path and waited as she fumbled with the key in the door.

For a moment, Hermione wanted to turn around and return to camp, but the temptation of the potential answers moved her feet. She and Harry slipped past the witch into the house. As soon as they crossed the threshold a strange smell hit them. Stale food, dust, and some other underlying musk she couldn't identify…

After pulling the cloak from their heads, Harry tried again, "Bathilda?"

Another nod was the only response given before the witch shuffled into the next room, completely ignoring Hermione's existence as she went.

"Harry, I'm not sure about this…"

Everything in her screamed that something was wrong, even if she couldn't put her finger on exactly why…

"Look at the size of her! I think we could overpower her if we had to." Harry said. "Listen, I should have told you, I knew she wasn't all there. Muriel called her 'gaga'."

An odd sound, almost like a wheezed cough, came from the sitting room and she jumped in response, clutching at Harry's arm.

"It's okay." The wizard next to her reassured and then led the way further into the home.

The foul odor hung heavy in the air as they stepped inside the dark room. Underneath the stench of dank mildew, there were notes of something far worse, like meat gone bad. Which wasn't necessarily surprising when the state of the place became illuminated with each new candle the decrepit witch silently lit… A layer of dust, so thick it crunched under their feet, covered every surface. Including the piles of molding teacups…

"Let me do that." Harry offered, rushing forward to take the matches from the centenarian. He quickly finished the task and began to study the photographs that were carefully arranged on a chest of drawers.

Bathilda watched him for a few moments though Hermione didn't know how she was able to see through the cataracts that clouded her eyes. Apparently, content to let him snoop, the old witch limped over to the fireplace and struggled to get down on her knees. Hermione stopped what looked like a painful descent. "Why don't you go and sit?"

Still refusing to speak, Bathilda stood in the middle of the room and stared down at her with those odd all-seeing white orbs. Harry eventually turned from the dusty remnants of the crone's life, a silver-framed photograph in hand, "Mrs. – Miss – Bagshot? Who… Who is this?"

"Miss Bagshot?" He repeated and stepped closer. "Who is this person?"

After Hermione stoked the flames of fire into catching, she looked over her shoulder and watched as Harry thrust the picture into the mute witch's face and spoke much slower and louder, "Do you know who this is? This man here? Do you know him? What is he called?"

Clearly confused, Bathilda stood there blinking as Harry nearly yelled at her, "Who is this man?!"

"Harry…" Hermione interrupted, surprised at the unexpected burst of frustration. "What are you doing?"

"This picture, Hermione, it's the thief! The thief who stole from Gregorovitch." He snapped in her direction before spinning back to the woman at his side. "Please! Who is this?!"

The feeling of unease that had followed her from the graveyard flared and Hermione scrambled to her feet and she tried to reach the ancient woman herself, "Why did you ask us to come with you, Mrs. – Miss – Bagshot? Was there something you wanted to tell us?"

Giving no signs she'd heard her, Bathilda moved even closer to Harry. She jerked her head and then looked back at the hallway.

"You want us to leave?" Harry asked.

The witch repeated the gesture, this time pointing first at him, then at herself, then at the ceiling.

"Oh right… I think she wants me to go upstairs with her." Harry pointed out the obvious.

"All right. Let's go." Hermione signaled for the pair to lead the way.

But when she went to follow Bathilda froze in place and shook her head vigorously. Once more pointing between her and Harry.

"She wants me to go with her alone…"

Her nerves screamed in warning and her voice was higher than she meant for it to be when she asked, "Why?!"

"Maybe Dumbledore told her to give the sword to me, and only to me?"

Hermione scoffed, "Do you really think she knows who you are?"

He studied the stranger for a moment before nodding, "Yes, I think she does."

"Well…" Any argument that she could come up with against splitting up died on her lips. "Okay then… But be quick, Harry."

"Lead the way," Harry told Bathilda.

The senile witch seemed to understand and started to slowly limp from the room. Hermione turned away from the dreadful sight of him leaving and started to scan the titles of dust-caked books. Thoughtfully organized, the collection of rare tomes had meant something to the famous historian but due to her condition had fallen into squalor.

Forgotten…

In the same decaying shape as the owner…