Harry and Daphne pulled apart slightly, just enough to look at each other properly. Then, as if drawn by the same magnetic force, they came together again. This kiss was slower but no less intense. Daphne felt like she was drowning in sensation. The warmth of Harry's mouth, the strength of his arms around her, and the way he held her like she was precious and powerful all at once.
His hands moved over her back, tracing the curve of her spine. She responded by threading her fingers through his hair, angling her head to deepen the kiss further. When his tongue traced her lower lip, she opened for him immediately. The kiss became something molten and desperate.
Time seemed to stop. There was nothing but this moment, this connection. Two broken people finding solace in each other, comfort in shared pain, and something else. Something that felt suspiciously like hope.
When they finally broke apart again, both of them were flushed and trembling slightly. Harry's green eyes were dark with desire and emotion. Daphne knew she must look similarly affected.
"We should probably go," Harry said, his voice rough. "Before someone notices we're here."
"Probably," Daphne agreed. But neither of them moved.
Harry's thumb traced her swollen lower lip. "This changes things."
"It does," Daphne said. "But maybe that's not a bad thing."
"Maybe not," Harry agreed. He smiled then, a real smile that transformed his face. "Come on. Let's get out of here before our luck runs out."
However, his lips were once again on hers, and Daphne pressed against him desperately. Neither seemed to be able to get enough of the other.
"We should take the second dose," Daphne said breathlessly, pulling back slightly. "The Polyjuice. We still have work to do here."
Harry nodded with a soft sigh. She was right. They weren't safe. They were standing exposed in enemy territory, visible to anyone who might look. His jaw tightened as he forced himself back into mission mode.
"Right. Yes. The Polyjuice."
They each pulled out their second vial and drank quickly. The transformation was no more pleasant the second time, but at least they knew what to expect. Within moments, they were once again wearing the faces of middle-aged strangers.
"Better," Daphne said, her voice steadier now.
Harry retrieved the Invisibility Cloak and draped it over them both. This time when his arm came around her waist and pulled her back against him, she relaxed into the contact without hesitation. The air between them had changed. Something that had been building for days had finally broken free, and now there was an ease to their closeness that hadn't existed before.
They would need to talk about what had happened. About the kiss, about what it meant, about where they went from here. But not now. Right now they had a mission to complete. The conversation could wait until they were safely back at the manor.
Harry's hand rested on her stomach, warm and solid. Daphne covered it briefly with her own, a silent acknowledgment of the shift between them, and kept it there. She felt him squeeze gently in response.
Together they made their way out of the ruined house. The snow was still falling steadily, covering their magically erased footprints as quickly as they were made. The village remained quiet around them, most residents tucked safely inside their homes for Christmas Eve.
"Do you know where Bathilda Bagshot lives?" Harry asked quietly as they walked back toward the village square.
"No idea," Daphne admitted. "But there should be a village office or records building somewhere. Small magical communities usually keep a registry of residents. We could check there."
"Makes sense," Harry said. "Though breaking into a government building on Christmas Eve seems risky."
"More risky than everything else we've done tonight?"
He huffed a quiet laugh. "Fair point."
They were passing through the square again, the war memorial visible in the distance, when Daphne felt it. A prickling sensation at the back of her neck. The distinct feeling of being watched.
Harry must have felt it too because his entire body went rigid behind her. His arm tightened around her waist, pulling her closer. She felt his other hand move, and she knew he was reaching for his wand beneath his cloak.
Daphne's own hand found her wand and gripped it tightly. They turned slowly, carefully, scanning the apparently empty street for the source of their unease.
There. Standing in the shadow of a building, barely visible in the darkness and falling snow, was a figure. An old woman, hunched and frail, wrapped in a thick shawl. She was staring directly at them.
"She can see us," Daphne breathed. "How can she see us?"
"I don't know," Harry murmured. His voice was tense. "But she knows we're here."
The old woman raised one gnarled hand and beckoned them forward. The gesture was urgent, insistent.
Harry and Daphne exchanged a quick glance. This could be a trap. Could be Death Eaters using an old woman as bait. Could be any number of dangerous things.
But it could also be exactly who they were looking for.
They moved forward cautiously, their wands ready beneath their cloaks. One wrong move and they were ready to curse.
The woman watched them approach, her eyes tracking their movement despite the Invisibility Cloak. As they drew closer, Daphne could make out more details. The woman was ancient, her face deeply lined, and her posture stooped with age. But there was something in her bearing, some remnant of the sharp mind she must have once possessed.
Daphne gasped softly. "That's her. That's Bathilda Bagshot."
"Are you sure?" Harry asked.
"Positive. I've seen her photograph in the front of A History of Magic hundreds of times. It's her."
Harry didn't relax his guard. "How does she know we're here? How can she see through the cloak?"
"I don't know."
"Dumbledore could do it," Harry murmured. "Maybe it's a skill some very powerful or very old witches and wizards develop."
They were close enough now that the old woman could hear them if they spoke normally. She was looking at them with an intensity that belied her apparent frailty. Her eyes were very pale, Daphne noticed. Almost clouded over. She wondered if the woman could actually see them or if she was sensing their presence some other way.
"Take it off," the old woman rasped suddenly. Her voice was cracked and dry. "Take off the cloak. Quickly now."
Harry hesitated for only a moment before pulling the cloak away. They stood revealed in the snowy street, still wearing their Polyjuiced disguises.
"You're Bathilda Bagshot?" Harry asked carefully.
The old woman nodded jerkily. Her eyes darted around the street, checking for observers. Then she beckoned them again, more urgently this time. She turned and began shuffling away, clearly expecting them to follow.
Harry and Daphne looked at each other. Every instinct screamed that this could be a trap. But they'd come here for information, and Bathilda Bagshot was the best source in the village.
"Stay alert," Harry murmured.
"Always," Daphne replied.
xXx
The clearing stank of blood and death.
Five bodies lay sprawled across the forest floor, their wands scattered uselessly among the dead leaves.
Fleur Delacour lowered her wand, breathing hard. Her scarf had slipped, revealing the grim expression on her face as she gazed at the corpses. Blood spattered her traveling cloak, but none of it was hers.
"Clear," said Tonks, emerging from the tree line. Her hair was black tonight, let loose straight over her back. After all, in this climate, she couldn't go with bright pink hair like a walking, talking attention magnet.
Fleur nodded, glancing over at her companion. Twenty minutes ago, this clearing had been a snatcher camp. She'd heard them before she'd seen them. Their rough voices were bragging about the Muggleborn family they'd caught last week, and the gold they'd earned for turning them in. The laughter that followed had made her blood burn.
She hadn't hesitated.
The first snatcher had died before he'd finished drawing his wand. Fleur's banishing spell had hit him square in the chest, and he'd toppled backward into the fire, burning alive. She hadn't planned on it, and while she'd been reeling with shock as she realized she'd killed someone, the others had scattered, scrambling for their wands.
Fortunately, Tonks was already there. She'd shown no hesitation like her and had taken down two more in quick succession. It was efficient, brutal, and necessary.
The last two had put up a fight. One had managed a cutting curse that had missed Fleur's neck by inches, shearing through her hair instead. She'd had to catch her bearings quickly, and she responded with a Blasting Curse that had sent him flying into a tree trunk. He hadn't gotten up.
The fifth had been the hardest. Younger than the others, and faster. He'd dueled Tonks across the clearing while Fleur dealt with his companion, their spells lighting up the darkness like deadly fireworks. In the end, Tonks had feinted left and struck right, using a move Moody had taught her during their training. The man had dropped like a puppet with cut strings.
That had been it, and now, it was quiet. Too quiet.
"That's all of them," Tonks said, checking each body methodically. Her voice was flat, empty of emotion. She'd learned to do that too, numbing herself to the act of killing. "They won't hurt anyone else."
"Good," Fleur said quietly, still reeling after what she'd done. However, deep down, she realized she meant it. Every snatcher they stopped was a life saved, a family spared. The morality of war was simple, even if living with it wasn't.
She moved to search the bodies for information. Patrol maps, orders, anything useful that could help them out. However, she found something else.
Blood.
A trail of it, leading away from the clearing into the darker woods beyond. It looked somewhat fresh as it gleamed in the moonlight.
"Tonks," Fleur called out.
The Auror was at her side in an instant, her wand raised. Fleur pointed her towards the trail.
Tonks nodded and cast a diagnostic charm, frowning at the result. "Different magical signature. Not from any of these bastards."
Fleur's stomach tightened. "A prisoner?"
"Maybe. Or another one of theirs who wasn't here." Tonks straightened, looking around at the small clearing. "But I don't think it's that."
"What do you mean?"
"Look at the trail. It starts way back. I don't think the snatchers were looking to camp here."
Fleur looked over with a frown. "Zey must've found zis blood trail and were following it."
"And we took care of them before they could finish it," Tonks straightened. "Whoever this person is, they're bleeding badly. We should move. It's possible we might find them."
"Carefully," Fleur said. "It could be—"
"A trap too. I know." Tonks gave her a wry look. "I was taught by Moody, Fleur. Constant vigilance and all that."
Fleur nodded, and they moved into the woods as one, the tips of their wands glowing with Lumos. The blood trail was easy to follow. Too easy, in fact. Whoever had left it was either badly injured or wanted to be found.
"Are you okay?" Tonks asked, concerned. "That was your first kill, right?"
Fleur nodded.
"It's necessary," Tonks sighed. "But it never gets easier. You simply learn to numb yourself to it."
Fleur nodded again. She was already feeling that way.
The forest was thick and dark. An owl hooted overhead, and small creatures skittered through the underbrush. Fleur's heart hammered against her ribs, but her wand hand stayed steady. Her Papa had taught her that. Focus on what you can control. Keep moving forward.
The blood trail led them deeper, away from the paths and into the thickness of the woods. The trees here were older, their branches twisted into strange shapes.
"There," Tonks whispered.
A figure lay slumped against a massive oak tree. Small frame, female. Her clothes were torn and bloodsoaked. One hand pressed against her shoulder, the other still clutching her wand.
Fleur approached cautiously, every sense alert for danger. But as she got closer, she saw the girl's face—pale, young, and framed by red-gold hair matted with blood and dirt.
"Merlin's beard," Tonks breathed, her eyes wide. "Susan?"
The girl's eyes fluttered open. They were glazed with pain and exhaustion, but recognition sparked in them. "Tonks?" She asked, her voice barely a whisper. "You're... real?"
Tonks rushed over and dropped to her knees beside Susan Bones, her wand already out as she cast one diagnostic spell after another.
"What are you doing out here?" Tonks demanded, though her touch was gentle as she examined the wound. "You should be—"
"Safe?" Susan let out a bitter laugh that turned into a cough. Her whole body shook with pain as she took deep breaths. "Nowhere's safe, Tonks. Not anymore."
Fleur knelt on Susan's other side, pulling some Essence of Dittany from her pack. She'd heard of Susan Bones, everyone in the Order knew about Amelia Bones's niece. The girl had been at her friend's place when her aunt was murdered, their family home destroyed.
"Your aunt taught me a lot," Tonks said quietly, accepting the Dittany from Fleur and uncorking the vial. "She was the best Auror I ever knew."
"She taught me too. Before." Susan's jaw tightened. "Summers, holidays. Said every witch should know how to defend herself. After she died, I..." She trailed off, her eyes distant.
"You did not return to 'Ogwarts zis year," Fleur said gently.
"Couldn't. After Dumbledore's death, I knew it'd no longer be safe, even if I'm a pureblood. And the things I've heard have only proven me right. Snape as the Headmaster, the Carrows as his enforcers, the Muggleborn Registration, torture, all of it." Susan's hand clenched around her wand. "I have cousins. Muggleborn cousins on my mother's side. The Ministry came for them three months ago."
Tonks went very still. "Susan—"
"I got them out. I've been getting people out." Susan's voice was stronger now, her face defiant. "Using Aunt Amelia's contacts, the safe houses she told me about before she died. Moving families, forging papers, creating false trails." She gestured weakly at herself. "Tonight, I got sloppy. Ran into a patrol near Little Hangleton. Took down three of them, but one got a curse through before I could finish him."
"And ze others followed your trail," Fleur finished.
"I heard them. Couldn't fight anymore, so I ran." Susan's eyes met Tonks's. "I thought they'd catch me. I thought... I'd see Aunt Amelia again."
"Not today," Tonks said fiercely. She applied the Dittany. Susan hissed but didn't cry out as thick steam oozed from the wound. "You're coming with us. We have a safe house—"
"I have four families waiting for extraction in Nottingham," Susan interrupted. "The schedule—"
"Can wait until you're not bleeding to death." Tonks finished treating the wound and helped Susan sit up straighter. "How long have you been doing this alone?"
"Four weeks. Maybe five." Susan tried to stand, but she swayed, almost falling over. Fleur caught her gently, steadying her. "Lost track."
Fleur and Tonks glanced at each other. Over a month. A young girl who should be at Hogwarts right now, running a resistance alone. Amelia Bones would have been proud. And horrified.
"Ze Snatchers," Fleur said. "Zey did not know who zey were chasing?"
Susan shook her head, a painful grin on her face as she tapped a small flask tied to her waist. "I'm careful. Never use my real name, always disguise my appearance."
"Polyjuice," Tonks smirked. "Smart."
"That I am," Susan said proudly. "They must've seen the blood trail and followed it. Thought they'd found an easy mark."
"Instead zey found us," Fleur said with grim satisfaction.
"Feeling better?" Tonks asked once she was done doing the initial patch-ups. Susan tried to move and winced, but she nodded.
"Not fully fit, but loads better. Thanks."
"We should be moving now. You okay to apparate?" Fleur asked.
"I think so."
"Hold tightly then. Our temporary safe house is outside Tinworth," Tonks said. "Small cottage, warded to hell and back. You'll stay there until you're fully healed, and then—"
"Then we talk about those families you mentioned. The ones in Nottingham," Fleur finished, nodding firmly. "Because you are not doing zis alone anymore."
Susan's eyes darted from one to the other, and for the first time in a long while, she felt a semblance of hope. "You'd help? Really?"
"Your aunt meant a lot to me," Tonks said. "It's the least I can do. And it's also the right thing." She tightened her grip on Susan's arm. "On three, okay? One, two, three."
With soft cracks, they disapparated from the forest, leaving the dead corpses of Voldemort's snatchers behind.
They wouldn't be doing any more snatching from now on.
xXx
Harry and Daphne fell into step behind the old woman, keeping their hands joined and their wands accessible beneath their cloaks. Bathilda led them through several winding streets, moving with surprising speed despite her apparent age. Finally she stopped before a house that looked as old and neglected as its owner.
The building was stone, clearly dating back centuries. But time and weather had not been kind to it. The roof sagged in places, the windows were grimy and cracked, and several shutters hung loose on their hinges. The small garden was overgrown, half buried under snow. A faint smell emanated from the property, something musty and unpleasant that screamed poor ventilation and even poorer housekeeping.
Bathilda pushed open the front door, which creaked ominously, and shuffled inside. Harry and Daphne followed more cautiously, their senses on high alert for any sign of danger.
The interior was worse than the exterior. Clutter filled every surface. Books and papers were stacked haphazardly on tables and chairs. Dust coated everything. The smell was stronger inside, a combination of mold, old food, and unwashed living that made Daphne's nose wrinkle. This was not the home of someone caring for themselves properly.
Bathilda closed the door behind them and shuffled further into the house. She moved into what must serve as a sitting room, though calling it that was generous. More books lined makeshift shelves, interspersed with odd magical artifacts and what looked like ancient research materials.
"Can we help you out with anything, ma'am?" Daphne offered, her natural courtesy overriding her discomfort with the surroundings.
Bathilda waved a dismissive hand but didn't respond verbally. She was rummaging through a stack of papers, apparently looking for something specific.
Harry caught Daphne's eye and shrugged slightly. They stood there awkwardly, uncertain whether to sit or continue standing, whether to speak or wait for their host to address them.
After a moment, Harry moved toward the fireplace. It was cold and dark, the room uncomfortably chilly as a result. "Let me get this started for you," he said, drawing his wand.
A quick spell and flames sprang to life, casting warm light and shadow across the cluttered room. Bathilda glanced over briefly, gave a small nod of acknowledgment, and returned to her searching.
Daphne moved closer to Harry. "This is strange," she murmured.
"Very," he agreed quietly. "Keep your guard up."
They waited while Bathilda continued her slow, methodical search through the chaos of her home. Daphne's eyes wandered over the various items scattered around. There were photographs everywhere, she noticed. Magical ones, with figures that moved slowly or had frozen in place due to age.
One photograph in particular caught her attention. It sat on a small table near where Harry was standing. In it, two young men stood together, both handsome and confident. One had white blonde hair, striking even in the faded photograph. The other had auburn hair.
"Harry," Daphne said quietly, nudging him and nodding toward the photograph.
Unbeknownst to either of them, Bathilda's clouded gaze fixated on Harry for a moment before she turned back once again.
Harry picked the photo up and studied it. His eyes widened suddenly. "That's him. The thief."
"What?"
"The thief from the memory… or vision… Gregorovitch's memory. The one who stole a powerful wand from Gregorovitch. I saw him in the vision during Bill and Fleur's wedding. This is the same person."
Daphne looked more closely at the photograph. The blonde young man was laughing, his arm around the other man's shoulders. They looked like close friends, perhaps even more than friends. There was an intimacy to the way they stood together.
"Who is it?" Harry asked, his voice rising slightly with frustration. He turned toward Bathilda. "This person, in the photograph. Who is he? I need to know."
Bathilda didn't respond. She'd found whatever she was looking for and was now making her way toward the kitchen area, still not speaking.
"Harry," Daphne said gently, putting a hand on his arm. "Calm down. She's an old woman. Give her time."
He took a breath and nodded, but his jaw was tight with barely suppressed frustration. "This matters, Daphne. That person stole a powerful wand from Gregorovitch. I don't know if I'm reaching here, but there's only one powerful wand we've heard of. If it's all real, if the Hallows are real, we need to know everything about him."
"I know," Daphne said. "But getting angry won't help." She took the photograph from his hands and studied it more carefully. "You said you saw this person with Dumbledore? In Rita Skeeter's book?"
"Yes. There was a chapter about Dumbledore's youth. This man was in it. But I didn't pay much attention to the details."
Daphne's eyes narrowed as pieces clicked together in her mind. "I read that book. The whole thing. Thoroughly." She looked up at Harry. "The person you're talking about, the one in Dumbledore's youth who he was close to. That was Gellert Grindelwald."
Harry's face went blank with shock. "What?"
"Grindelwald," Daphne repeated. "The dark lord Dumbledore defeated in 1945. They were friends when they were young. More than friends, actually. There were implications in Skeeter's book that they were romantically involved."
"Dumbledore and Grindelwald," Harry said slowly. "Were lovers?"
"The book suggested as much. Though who knows how accurate Skeeter's reporting actually was. But they were definitely close. Very close. Until something happened that drove them apart."
"And Grindelwald was the one who stole the Elder Wand, or what might be the Elder Wand," Harry said. His voice had gone flat, processing this revelation. "Dumbledore's former lover was searching for the Deathly Hallows. That's why he used their symbol. That's why he adopted it as his mark."
"It seems that way," Daphne confirmed, before she added quietly, "and we're in the home of his great-aunt right now."
They were interrupted by Bathilda suddenly appearing much closer than she'd been a moment ago. Both Harry and Daphne jumped slightly, startled by how quietly the old woman had moved.
Bathilda gestured toward the seating area, a clear instruction for them to sit. They did so, settling onto a worn sofa that smelled faintly of mothballs. Bathilda shuffled to the kitchen and returned with three steaming mugs. She placed two in front of Harry and Daphne, kept one for herself, and lowered herself carefully into an armchair across from them.
For a long moment, she simply sat there, breathing heavily from the exertion of moving around her house. Her eyes were indeed very pale, Daphne noted now that she could see the woman clearly in the firelight. Almost completely clouded over. She must be nearly blind.
Finally, Bathilda spoke. "You want to know about Gellert."
Her voice was clearer now, though still rough with age. Harry leaned forward eagerly.
"Yes. Him and Dumbledore. And the Deathly Hallows."
Bathilda took a slow sip of her drink. "Old history. Painful history. But I suppose it's relevant again now, isn't it? With the new war, the new dark lord. History repeats."
"What can you tell us about Grindelwald and Dumbledore?" Daphne asked gently.
Bathilda's clouded eyes seemed to focus on something far away. "They met here. In Godric's Hollow. The summer of 1899. Gellert had come to stay with me. I remember the talk. Two brilliant young men, both destined for greatness. They became inseparable almost immediately."
"Were they lovers?" Harry asked bluntly.
"In their way," Bathilda said. "Whether they acted on it, I couldn't say. But the passion between them was obvious to anyone who looked. Not just romantic passion, though that was there. But intellectual passion. They challenged each other, pushed each other, inspired each other."
"And the Hallows?" Daphne prompted.
"Ah yes. The Hallows." Bathilda's mouth twisted into something that might have been a smile or a grimace. "They were obsessed with them. Both of them. Gellert especially, but Albus was just as eager. They spent that whole summer researching, theorizing, planning."
"Planning what?" Harry asked.
"How to find them, of course. The three Deathly Hallows. Gellert believed they were real, believed they could be found. He'd already done extensive research into the Elder Wand. Knew its history, knew it had passed from owner to owner through conquest. He was determined to claim it."
Daphne glanced at Harry. His expression was tight, controlled, but she could see the tension in his body.
"And Dumbledore?" she asked. "What did he want with the Hallows?"
Bathilda was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, sadder. "Albus had just lost his mother. Kendra died that summer, suddenly and tragically. He was left to care for his younger siblings, Aberforth and Ariana. But he didn't want that responsibility. He wanted glory. Adventure. Power. The Hallows represented all of that."
"The Resurrection Stone," Harry said quietly. "He could have brought his mother back."
"Perhaps that was part of it," Bathilda acknowledged. "Though I think Albus knew better than to believe the dead could truly return. No, what he wanted was to be master of death itself. To have power over the greatest enemy. It was an arrogant dream, but he was young. Young men often dream arrogant dreams."
Harry's hand had moved to his pocket where Daphne knew he kept the Invisibility Cloak. "What happened?" he asked. "What drove them apart?"
Bathilda's expression darkened. "Ariana. Albus's sister. She was damaged, that poor girl. Damaged by Muggle boys who saw her doing magic when she was a child. They attacked her, and something broke inside her after that. She couldn't control her magic properly. It would burst out of her in violent, dangerous ways."
"An Obscurial," Daphne breathed.
"I didn't know the term then, but yes. That's what she was. Albus and Aberforth tried to care for her, but it was difficult. Especially with Albus spending all his time with Gellert, making plans to leave, to go searching for the Hallows together."
"They were going to leave?" Harry asked.
"Yes. That summer, they planned it all. They would find the Hallows, unite them, become masters of death. Then they would reshape the wizarding world. For the greater good, they said. Reveal magic to Muggles, establish wizard rule. Gellert was always more radical in his views, but Albus went along with it. He wanted the glory and the power."
Bathilda paused to drink again. Her hands shook slightly, age and memory both weighing on her.
"But Aberforth found out about their plans," she continued. "He confronted them. Told Albus he couldn't abandon Ariana. There was a terrible argument, wands drawn. And in the chaos, Ariana was caught in the crossfire. She died."
The room fell silent. Harry and Daphne sat frozen, absorbing the tragedy of it.
"No one knows whose spell actually killed her," Bathilda said quietly. "It could have been Albus's. It could have been Aberforth's. It could have been Gellert's. The three of them dueled and the girl died. That's all anyone knows for certain."
"And that ended their friendship," Daphne said.
"Ended it completely. Gellert fled the country. Albus was left with his sister's body and his brother's hatred. He never tried to find the Hallows again after that. Never pursued Gellert until he was forced to, decades later."
"But Grindelwald continued searching," Harry said.
"Oh yes. Gellert never gave up on the Hallows. He found the Elder Wand eventually. Stole it from Gregorovitch the wandmaker. With that in his possession, he began his campaign for power. You know the rest. The reign of terror, the wars, until Albus finally faced him in 1945."
"And defeated him," Harry said.
Bathilda's clouded eyes fixed on him. "Did he defeat him? Or did he simply disarm him? There's a difference, young man. Especially when it comes to the Elder Wand."
Harry's expression shifted as he processed this. "The wand chooses its master through conquest. Dumbledore defeated Grindelwald. Which means the wand's allegiance transferred to Dumbledore."
"Yes," Bathilda confirmed. "Whether Albus wanted it or not, he became the master of the Elder Wand that day. The most powerful wand in existence became his."
Daphne's mind was racing. "But Dumbledore is dead now. So the wand's allegiance would have transferred again. To whoever defeated him."
"If anyone did," Bathilda said. Her voice had gone strange and distant. "The wand recognizes power, recognizes conquest. But it's a fickle thing. Dangerous. The history of the Elder Wand is written in blood. Every master eventually falls to the next."
"You're saying we shouldn't pursue it," Harry said.
"I'm saying the Hallows are not gifts. They're curses disguised as gifts. The story tells you this. Two brothers died because of what they were given. Only the third, the humble one, survived. Because he understood that death is not meant to be mastered or escaped. Only accepted."
Harry's jaw tightened but he didn't argue. Instead he asked, "Is there anything else you can tell us? About the Hallows, about where we might find information?"
Bathilda shook her head slowly. "I've told you what I know. The Hallows are real. The wand exists, the cloak exists. The stone, I cannot say for certain. But if you're searching for them, be careful. Many have sought the Hallows before you. Most came to bad ends."
"We're not seeking them for power," Daphne said. "We're trying to understand why Dumbledore led us to information about them. Why he wanted us to know."
"Albus always had his reasons," Bathilda said. "Complex, layered reasons that he rarely shared completely. Perhaps he wanted you to understand what you're truly facing. Perhaps he wanted you to have a choice."
Harry stood abruptly. "Is there anything you have for me? Anything Dumbledore left with you to give me?"
Bathilda looked up at him, her pale eyes searching his transformed face. "You're not who you appear to be."
"No," Harry admitted. "I'm not. But the question stands. Did Dumbledore leave anything with you? For Harry Potter specifically?"
Bathilda's head shook slowly, cryptically. The gesture could have meant no, or it could have meant something else entirely. Harry's shoulders sagged slightly with disappointment.
"No sword then," he muttered.
"Sword?" Bathilda's voice sharpened slightly. "What sword?"
"Gryffindor's sword," Daphne said. "We thought it might be hidden here in Godric's Hollow."
"Ah. The founder's blade. No. No sword here. If Albus hid it, he hid it elsewhere."
Harry nodded, clearly frustrated but unsurprised. He was about to speak again when Bathilda suddenly looked up sharply.
"You're not the first to come asking these questions," she said. Her voice had changed, become more agitated. "Not the first to seek information about the Hallows. About the Peverells. About Dumbledore."
Harry and Daphne both tensed. "Who else?" Harry asked carefully.
"Someone came. Recently. Asking the same things. Where are the Hallows? What did Dumbledore know? How can they be found?" Bathilda's hands were shaking more noticeably now. "I told them some of what I told you. But they weren't satisfied. They wanted more. Demanded more."
"Who was it?" Daphne asked urgently.
"I held on," Bathilda whimpered. "I held on for as long as I could. I made him believe that was all I knew. And I begged him to leave me."
"Who came here?" Harry asked firmly.
Bathilda's clouded eyes were filling with tears now. Her whole body had begun to tremble. She opened her mouth to speak but the words wouldn't come at first. Just a rasping, choking sound.
"He did leave me. But he left something with me. Something of his own."
"Who?" Harry pressed. "Please, this is important. Who else is looking for the Hallows?"
Bathilda looked directly at them. Tears were streaming down her weathered face. Her mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, choked with emotion and terror, she said a single word.
"Voldemort."
And the world around them exploded in a shower of crimson.
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