Chapter 1
Harry apparated into Godric's Hollow alone. He had been alone for the past few weeks, ever since Ron decided to leave and Hermione decided to go with him. It was for the best, Harry thought. Neither one of them had been prepared for whatever this was. Both of them blamed Harry for not knowing more, not being better. They blamed Harry when they should also be blaming Dumbledore. He was the one who kept pushing back when Harry could be told anything, saying he was too young or not ready; then he went and got himself killed without letting anyone else in on his masterful plan to save the world first. The cryptic old bastard.
Harry was better off alone. Better off without Ron and Hermione. The locket had calmed down since they left. Harry had to wear it 24/7 now but the sickening aura that had radiated off of the thing before was no more, so he wasn’t bothered. Harry felt fine.
It had been easier to hide as a person of one, as well. Harry had been under his invisibility cloak near constantly since they had left. Packing up the first night by himself, Harry had found that Hermione had left her story book. Harry had read through it and the story of the three brothers had given him the idea. If the youngest brother could use his cloak to hide from Death, surely Harry could use his to hide from some death eaters.
Harry walked into the Godric’s Hollow cemetery still under his cloak. The graveyard was laid out in rows beside an old stone church with odd stained glass designs, they looked unlike other church stained glass that Harry had seen but he couldn’t quite tell what the windows were trying to depict from where he was. The illuminated church windows threw a spectrum across the cemetery, lighting the graves up different colors where the light hit.
Harry made sure that he was deep in the shadows of the cemetery before removing his cloak. It was still early enough in the evening that the presence of someone in the cemetery wouldn’t concern a passerby, but the time of year that it was already dark enough that no one would recognize his features.
He glanced around, noticing that while there were a few new gravestones here or there, there were also old ones. Really old ones. He squatted down in front of one of the oldest looking, angling himself so he could get some light on it from the church. The gravestone glowed an eerie green and Harry ran his fingers over the name trying to decipher it. Ignotus Peverell. And it had that symbol, the same one from the story book, Harry was almost positive. It also reminded him of the symbol that Luna’s dad had been wearing, the symbol of Grindelwald, Krum had said.
The gravestone next to it was one of those that is meant for two people. It wasn’t too much new than the last but somewhat easier to read, nonetheless. The same symbol sat in the center of the stone and on one side read Hardwin Potter and the other side Iolanthe Potter nee Peverell.
There were a few stones older than Ignotus, all hard to read, but all seemingly Peverell, and after that the stones seemed to mainly be Potters, as well as the families that they married into. There were a few names like Abbott and Bagshot that he recognized. Also Dumbledore, so there was some truth to what Skeeter had written.
His parents' grave was almost painfully easy to find. It was. The tomb was a large white monument, a beacon of light. He choked out a sob. For what was lost, what was sacrificed. They had only lived to be 21, and he wasn’t ready to die at 17.
Harry cried beside their grave for a little while longer. He was about to disappear into the shadows again to readorn his cloak, when a small hunched figure swaddled in layer after layer of wool came bustling into the cemetery. She, he assumed it was an old lady by her stature, had a basket on one arm and Harry saw her stop a few rows in front of him to place something, a bouquet of flowers, in front of the grave he knew belonged to the Dumbledores. The figure continued on, straight towards Harry, seeming to not even notice him with the lack of light.
Harry turned back towards his parents grave, rather having the old lady notice him first, than calling out to her, in hopes to spook her less. He kept watch over her slow progression from the corner of his eye and had his had wrapped around his wand in his pocket, though he was equal parts sure that this figure was not a threat to him and that even if she was, he could take her.
He heard a gasping beside him and turned to see a gaping old woman, ancient really. He opened his mouth to apologize for starting the lady when her eyes got even wider and a look of recognition crossed her face. Harry felt a a jolt of panic surge through him, this was a bad idea, of course someone recognized him, he was-
“Hardwin…” the old lady rasped out, Wait, what? Harry had seen the name Hardwin on a tomb earlier and this lady was old but surely this lady wasn’t old enough to mistake him for his ancestor.
“Excuse me?” he croaked back.
”You’re Harry Potter, yes?” he nodded ever so slightly, there was no point in lying to the old woman who could clearly see his scar.
”It’s not safe out here, come with me. Follow me.” The old lady grabbed his arm, hauling him along, after she deposited her last bouquet on flowers in front of the grave of his parents. She clearly knew his parents or at least knew of them, which he supposed everyone did; but the woman had brought flowers to their grave, something he had regretted not bringing himself, and it had earned her a few points in his book.
“Are you Bathilda Bagshot?” he asked the old woman who nodded.
“And you knew my parents?” Bathilda nodded once again.
”Why did you call me Hardwin?” That had been the most confusing thing. The old lady glanced up at him as they turned to walk up the snow covered path to a very old looking house.
“I’m sure you know that your parents and you lived in Godric’s Hollow when you were a baby?” It was Harry’s turn to nod along. He had known that, it was the reason he had come.
”The first time I saw Lily was in that cemetery. A young girl, barely a woman, waddling from grave to grave, looking like she would go into labor any moment. She saw me bringing flowers to the Dumbledore grave and decided to approach me, correctly assuming I was a witch. We got to talking and decided to start a regular tea date. Once they moved back to Godric’s Hollow a few months later, James was still able to get out of the house here and there but Lily claimed both you and her were going stir-crazy in that house. Lily and baby Hardwin,”
The old woman smiled slightly in remembrance while Harry stared at her with wide eyes. Wass that his... his name? Hardwin? He saw it on one of the old Potter graves and knew wizards liked to reuse names, but he’d only ever been Harry. Just Harry.
“I thought my name was just Harry,” the boy croaked as they reached the door and Bathilda looked at him with pity.
“I knew your great grandfather, as well. Henry Potter, though he was sometimes called Harry. You were partially named after him, Lily said James wanted to keep it at Harry as he claimed that was all he would ever call you, but Lily insisted on giving you a more formal wizarding name as well. That way when you grew up and you didn’t want to use your childhood nickname anymore or you decided to be an academic or author and wanted a more serious name, you had something to fall back on.”
The woman patted Harry on the arm in commiseration as they stepped through the threshold into the house. It was a very old house and evident that the only person to live there was a very old lady. Bathilda ushered Harry into a sitting room and told him that she would go to fix tea and would return shortly. His offer to help was kindly rejected and he was left alone in the room.
One full wall was made up of built-in shelves, filled with both books and old photographs. Harry wandered over and started looking through the pictures. There were a few frames here or there that were missing their photo, and some were so coated with dust that the photos were hard to see, though one did grab his eye. The picture was of a golden haired boy with a mischievous smile.
The thief! Ms. Bagshot had a photograph of the thief who had stolen Gregorovich’s wand. He scanned over the other photos in the area. There were a few of the same boy. He picked up a heavy silver hinged-frame that had a baby picture of a rosy cheeked toddler in one panel and a lock of golden white hair tied in a bow in the other.
Bathilda Bagshot had photos of the thief. A stolen wand. Grindelwalds symbol was the symbol of the Peverell’s, of the three brothers. A stolen wand. He really was an idiot.
Grindelwald stole the elder wand from Gregorovitch. Which meant what? Wasn’t Grindelwald dead? He had thought Dumbledore had killed the man over 50 years ago. What if he hadn’t? What if-
A loud shattering crash followed by a scream drew Harry out of his musings, his hand immediately finding the wand in his pocket. He ran into the kitchen, wand drawn and was shocked by the scene he walked into. Ms. Bagshot was backed against the counter nearest where Harry had just entered the room. A large python was curled upon itself in the middle of the room, it was not prepared to strike at the moment but was watching them with sharp eyes nonetheless. Harry felt the locket that he was still wearing start to heat up and almost vibrate.
Behind the snake stood three masked figures. For a moment Harry had the horrifying thought that he had attracted the death eaters to the house, but the shocked gasps of “Potter” soon dissuaded him from that thought. And really, three death eaters and a giant snake to take out one old lady was a bit overkill, no matter who her nephew was.
Wait! Did they think she had the wand that Grindelwald stole? Did she have the wand??
Harry tried to edge towards the old woman slowly, hoping he could get between her and their enemies and at least give her time to get out of the kitchen. The death eaters were having none of it, before Harry knew what was happening all three started firing on them. He had just enough time to throw a shield up around Ms. Bagshot before he was hit with multiple spells at once.
The last Harry saw was the distraught face of the old woman and he could swear he heard a voice somewhere off to the side cry, “No, you idiots! What have you done?”
And he knew no more.