Chapter Two:: The Sorriest and Most Decrepit House of Potter
Some changes worth noting in this chapter. The man they encounter later on speaks...differently.

HERMIONE

“Sweet dreams,” her father had said, warmth and blissful ignorance in his every syllable.  

“We love you, dearest,” her mother had said, pausing by her daughter’s doorway, before shuffling away in her old house slippers. We love you, but we don’t understand you.

Hermione Granger tossed and turned fitfully in her sleep. A balmy summer breeze filtered through the open window, tousling her wild brown hair and masking the sound of someone crawling in through that very window.

“Hermione?” 

She rolled over, pulling her blankets up to her chin.

“Hermione? Hermione, wake up!”

Her eyes fluttered open and she glimpsed a face looming above her in the darkness. She made to cry out in terror but the figure waved a wand through the air, “Silencio!”

“H-Harry?” she fumbled for her wand in the dark and the tip lit of its own accord, casting the room into sharp relief. “Oh, Harry – you gave me such a fright! What on earth are you doing here? Not that I’m not glad to see you,” she added hastily. 

He apologized, looking truly sorry, and sat down on the edge of her bed. Hermione ran her fingers through her ratted brown hair, ruing the bedraggled state he’d found her in. Harry, however, wasn’t looking at her.

“What is it, Harry?”

“Aunt Petunia. She’s just told me everything.”

Hermione sat bolt upright. “Everything?” she asked, doubtfully. Aunt Petunia was a Muggle, one with a decidedly limited world view that – as far as Hermione knew – did not include anything of importance to Harry and his quest.  

“About Mum and Dad,” he said. “Where they lived, how to get there, where they’re – buried.”

His lip trembled endearingly at the last word and she reached out to brush a stray lock of black hair from his face, the only comforting gesture she could allow herself to provide.

“Hermione – I need to see it. That’s where it all begins, isn’t it?” Harry looked at her earnestly and she nodded stoically.

“I’m coming with you,” she said. She crawled out of bed and tried to rake a comb through her tangled hair but it was a lost cause. “An extra set of eyes won’t hurt—”

“Do you think that’s all you are to me?” he asked, with searching eyes and a soft smile. He reached out to catch her hand as she slipped past him, but only brushed the hem of her flimsy nightgown.

“Of course not,” she replied, though at her worst moments, she was not so confident in his need for her. “Will you give me a moment, Harry?”

“I’ll be outside,” he said and climbed back over the sill and lowered himself to the ground below.

Inside the house, Hermione Granger tugged off her nightgown, donned a t-shirt and jeans, yanked on a pair of boots that were sturdy and practical if not stylish, and hurriedly penned a note to her parents. Her quill paused over the bottom of the parchment. What else to say? You may never see me again? Look out for yourselves? In the end, she opted to play towards their ignorance, reassuring herself that it would be in their best interests to stay uninformed.

Don’t worry about me, she wrote. Your loving daughter,

Hermione.  

There, she thought, folding the letter and placing it on her pillow. Without a backward glance, Hermione Granger picked up her wand, swung one leg over the window sill, and dropped lightly into the garden patch below where Harry stood with his Firebolt in hand.

* * * * *

Two hours later, Harry guided the Firebolt earthwards and dismounted with smooth expertise.   

“Alright?” he asked, looking back at her as she staggered away from the broomstick and sank mercifully to the ground. She was tempted to kiss the dirt but settled for a simple vow never to fly again.

“Yes,” she fibbed, and though Harry’s eyebrows arched in disbelief, he did not question the lie.

“Do you need help?” Worry creased his brow as she stumbled to her feet with all the grace and composure of a day drunk.

“I—no. I’m fine, honestly, Harry,” she insisted, steadying herself against a tree until she thought she’d mostly regained her sense of balance. “Well, are you coming?” she called back to him with a weak laugh as she took a few shaky steps up the path.

He caught her up and they ambled on down the winding country lane in silence. The sky glowed pinkish-gray above them, heralding the imminent arrival of the new day.

Harry kept craning his neck for a glimpse inside the houses they passed. Lights flickered on in the kitchens and small silhouettes walked back and forth carrying breakfast plates, ties, and freshly-ironed shirts.

Gradually, the houses became fewer and farther between and Hermione knew they were drawing closer. Harry stopped abruptly at her side and gestured wordlessly towards a gap in the trees. Before Hermione could reach out to stop him, he strode off through the dense thicket towards the half-hidden ruins of a small cottage. He climbed nimbly over a crumbled stone wall and looked about.

“This is it,” he said with a painful finality.

Hermione scaled a pile of debris and joined him in the middle of the ruins. It felt like hallowed ground. “Harry,” she began, not at all sure what words of comfort she could offer to ease his pain. “Harry—”

“Ah! There you are!”

Harry tensed and Hermione’s wand flew to her wand as a plump, middle-aged woman in a magenta pantsuit plodded towards them. “You must be the Wattisons!” She stuck out a hand for Harry to shake. “I am Wendoline Johnstone, your realtor.”

Harry and Hermione exchanged startled glances.

“Nice place, isn’t it?” she asked conversationally. “Needs a bit of fixing up, of course, but with a little TLC, the possibilities are endless!”

“We weren’t—” Harry began, but Wendoline Johnstone wasn’t interested in hearing what he had to say.

“All the young couples are interested in fixer-uppers nowadays.” She tittered, studying the pair of them closely. Hermione felt her face flush pink.

“No,” Harry said, more firmly this time. “We’re not interested in buying. We’re just looking around.”

The realtor looked highly affronted. “Excuse me? Why on God’s green earth would you call me here so early in the morning if you were just going to ‘look around’?!” she sputtered, losing all of her professional aplomb.

“We didn’t call you here!” Hermione exclaimed.

Wendoline Johnstone sat down on the stone wall and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Always the same,” she said moodily, lighting one and jabbing it between her highly-glossed lips. “No one wants the place – and who can blame them after such terrible goings-on. Why, it must have been fifteen, twenty years ago now…fishy business if you ask me. Family gone. House destroyed. Weird people everywhere. Weird. You know the type.”

She eyed Harry and Hermione beadily; Hermione was torn between nodding knowingly and running for it before they were found out.

“So, young couple, eh? Newlyweds?”

“No,” said Harry, looking at Hermione in bewilderment.

“Well, you’d make a lovely pair,” the realtor replied, oblivious to the embarrassment she had caused. With a final sigh and hopeless glance at the skeleton of a house, she said, “Well, if you aren’t the Wattisons, then you’d best be going. I expect they’ll be here any moment and I’m not authorized to show the property to anyone without an appointment. City Council doesn’t want too many people tramping around and I can’t say I blame them.”

Harry and Hermione didn’t need telling twice. They bade the disgruntled, chain-smoking realtor good-bye and set off through the dense thicket.

* * * * *

HARRY

“Where to now?” Hermione wondered aloud.

Harry did not answer her directly, but strode onward, as a dog likening to a familiar scent. He rounded the wooded hill and found an old cemetery nestled on the other side of the embankment. A lump formed in his throat and he swallowed hard. Hermione’s small hand slid into his own, bracing him, and together they wended their way through the graveyard.

A drizzling rain began to fall as they walked, tall granite angels looming above them, crumbling stone monuments on each side. The silence was eerie – ethereal, even – for the rain deadened all other sounds.

Harry led the way, his eyes peeled for the Potters’ graves, and at long last, he found them, nestled in an overgrown niche. Ivy blanketed the face of the massive gravestone and weeds sprouted from a cranny in the rock. The wide limbs of a gnarled peach tree sheltered them from the rain and littered the ground with rotting fruit. Overcome, Harry knelt down and ran his fingers over the headstone, carefully tracing his parents’ names.

James Potter

November 6, 1959 – October 31, 1981

Lily Evans Potter

May 17, 1960 – October 31, 1981

The inscription was so simple, so nondescript, giving no mention of what they had lived for or how they had died. Carefully, Harry cleared away the tangled weeds and rotten peaches. His parents’ graves should not look like this, so unkempt, so forgotten. Squatting on the mound of earth that was his parents’ grave, Harry felt the loss doubly hard.

“Do you want a moment alone with them?” Hermione asked, her voice barely discernable above the steady rain.

He shook his head. “Stay,” he croaked, and so she knelt beside him – allowed him to fold into her embrace.

“I didn’t think it would be so hard,” he murmured, his throat raw. “It isn’t as though I ever really knew them—”

“But they gave you so much,” Hermione whispered back, “—their bravery and compassion, Harry. You’ve heard Sirius and Lupin say it a thousand times—”

“They gave me their lives. Rita Skeeter asked me once, what my parents would think of me, but I’ll never know.”

“They’d be proud of what you’ve become, Harry,” said Hermione soothingly. “They’d be—

But whatever James and Lily would be, Harry did not find out, for the stillness of the graveyard had been broken by the dull, uneven thud of heavy footsteps. Harry leapt to his feet and pulled out his wand, staring down its tip as the stooped figure of a sere old man stepped out of the mist. Hermione gasped and her wand already drawn, but the old man did not flinch.

“I’m not worth the trouble of finishing me off,” he said with a harsh laugh. 

“Who are you?” Harry demanded.

“You could call me an old friend,” he said, lowering his hood.

For a moment, Harry could have sworn that the man was Albus Dumbledore himself, but he couldn’t reconcile the man’s filthiness and vulgarity with the polished, collected Dumbledore he’d come to know so well.

“You’re the bartender, down at the Hog’s Head!” Hermione breathed, her eyes round in fear and surprise.

“Very good,” the man said, a misshapen smile softening his weathered features. “Aberforth Dumbledore,” he said, reaching out to shake Harry’s hand, “barkeep, Order of the Phoenix member, and sole survivor of the House of Dumbledore – owing to one long-dead Dark wizard and one unfortunate turn of events.”

“Harry Potter,” Harry said woodenly, still not quite trusting the old man. Something about him unsettled Harry, though he couldn’t say why.

“I know who you are, of course. My brother spoke very highly of you, young man,” Aberforth said, his eyes twinkling fondly in a way that was so reminiscent of the late Albus Dumbledore that Harry was finally put at ease. “And you, m’lady,” he said, taking Hermione’s hand and bowing as deeply as his bad back would permit, “must be Miss Granger.”

Hermione was clearly astounded, “How do you—”

“—do? Very well, thank you for asking, child. Or perhaps you were meaning to ask, how do I know of you?” He patted her hand. “Albus loved to come ‘round the pub and spoke of his students at great length. With your quick draw and excellent mental recall, you could be no other.” He smiled more broadly. “It is good that you are here, Mr. Potter. Three days – three days – I’ve been standing sentry here, waiting for your arrival. And now, we can commence.”

“Commence?”

“That is to say, I can tell you what little I know, if you have time to listen to a barmy, rheumatic old codger, that is. No objections? Then, I’ll press on—you’ve probably come looking for answers, Mr. Potter, and answers I cannot give. What happened to James and Lily Potter was senseless. A tragedy, there’s no denying it. But there’s always some sense in the senseless, or so I’ve been told by those who should know.” He laughed coarsely. “Whatever else happened that night matters little in the grand scheme of things, but your mother died in your place, Mr. Potter, and in so doing, she hoodwinked He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named – something not many a witch or wizard could hope to accomplish! But you’ve heard all this before and I’ve little more to add that’s not been said before…”

“That night…” Harry said, remembering Wendoline Johnstone’s comments about the strangeness of the place and the frenzy surrounding the attack, “How did it happen? How did it all unfold?”

Aberforth looked somberly down at the Potters’ graves. “Much has been said about that night, about who was there and who stayed away,” he said, nodding to himself. “One who was – Severus Snape.”

“Snape?” Harry bristled.

“Someone had to see it all,” Aberforth said with a nonchalant shrug. “Someone had to see it all; someone had to tell my brother that the Dark Mark had vanished. For all his pretensions, my brother was far from omniscient. Besides, Snape had his own reasons to be there...had quite a vested interest in James and Lily, he did.”

“He hated my parents,” Harry spat.

“It’s not in my place to make excuses for him. Snape was a young man who made a young man’s mistake—”

“And Dumbledore made an old man’s mistake in trusting him!” Harry said, shocked by his own audacity.

Aberforth brushed Harry’s comment away. “Like I’ve said, it’s not in my place to say. I cannot say what compelled my brother to trust him. I can only tell you what I know, what I have remembered these long years. You want to know about the night it happened? I will tell you what little I can.”

Harry ducked his head, gazing earnestly at the granite headstone.

“Your father died to save you and your mother, Mr. Potter. He died a warrior’s death and your mother, a savior’s. Right after, of course, there were witches and wizards everywhere. The Ministry had to set up some sort of barricade, just to keep people out. Couldn’t have Muggle noticing things. They’re not as thick as we think, Muggles. Caught on fairly quick, what with the house in shambles. The Ministry told them a gas main exploded.” He chuckled sadly to himself. “Lots of gas mains exploding in those days.

“But that night was different. The flames—” he mused, and Harry could almost see them reflect in his luminescent eyes – “spouted twenty – nay, thirty – feet in the air. Strange colors too. I’ve never seen anything like it. No gas main ever…but that’s beside the point. We were lucky, Mr. Potter, that Frank Longbottom was one of the first on the scene. Plunged right in, he did. He was a good man, Longbottom -- one of the best Aurors the Ministry ever had. Not that that counted for much,” Aberforth added gravely. “He and his wife ended up worse than dead. Found themselves ambushed one dark night exactly five months later… Didn’t stand a chance. A fair few Death Eaters were still running amok in those days and so much was still up in the air concerning He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, but it should never have happened in the first place. They should have had back-up. That’s how we came to lose two more of our number. Three, truth be told, for we never saw hide or hair of Caradoc Dearborn again after he failed Frank and Alice that night.

“Bad times. Bad luck. It’s always been bad luck for the Order, for the Potters, but you’ll be different, young man. The world’s counting on you now. It doesn’t do to pretend otherwise.”

Harry paled slightly; Hermione trembled at his side.

“I don’t reckon I’d fancy laying my life on the line for a sorry lot of magical ingrates, myself,” Aberforth observed, “but you’re made of stronger stuff, Mr. Potter. It’s in your blood.

And since the hour grows ever later and my back ever stiffer, I will leave you both with this -- my brother’s faith in you was absolute and what he had to offer you was infinite. I, as you can well see, am of a weaker, humbler sort, but if you ever have need of me, you know where to find me.” Once again, he bowed to them, and with a final warning not to linger long, he Disapparated.

Harry turned slowly to Hermione, who was carefully averting her red-rimmed eyes. This was what she hadn’t wanted to consider – the end.

“You can’t stand to think about it, can you?” he asked softly.

“Harry, please, don’t start.”

“You don’t have to put yourself in harm’s way. It’s my burden to bear, and I don’t think I could bear it if I was responsible for your de—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, recouping some of her composure. “Of course I’m coming with you,” and without another word, she clamped his hand firmly in her own and Apparated them to the lump of earth called Stoatshead Hill.

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