On a quiet, sun-drenched autumn afternoon, Albus Dumbledore decided it was time. He extended an invitation to both Ariana and Nagini for a personal trip, a journey into his own past. He felt it was only right, after all they had shared, that they see where his own story began.
Their destination was Godric's Hollow.
They arrived in the familiar village square, the air crisp and clean. Nagini, now looking more like a distinguished, dark-haired woman in her late sixties than the ancient, cursed being she once was, looked around with a quiet curiosity. It was her first visit to a purely wizarding village since her recovery.
Their first stop was the graveyard. Dumbledore led them not to the Potters' graves, but to his own family's plot. He stood for a long, silent moment before the weathered headstones of his mother, Kendra, and his sister, the first Ariana.
"I do not come here often enough," he said, his voice a soft, melancholic murmur. "Pride and old regrets are heavy travelling companions."
The living Ariana stood beside him, her presence a quiet, comforting support. She conjured a simple, elegant wreath of white roses and placed it on the grave of the girl whose face she wore. Nagini watched, her dark eyes full of a deep, silent empathy for the old man and the pain he still carried.
After paying their respects, Dumbledore's expression lightened. "Now," he said, a familiar twinkle returning to his eyes, "there is someone I would very much like you both to meet. An old friend. And the most dangerous gossip in the history of the wizarding world."
He led them down the cobbled lane to the crooked, ivy-covered cottage of Bathilda Bagshot.
The ancient historian was overjoyed to see them. "Albus! You old rascal!" she cackled, her voice like dry leaves skittering across pavement. "It's been too long! And you've brought the little miracle-worker!" Her sharp eyes then fell on Nagini. "And who is this lovely lady?"
"Bathilda, may I present an old acquaintance, Nagini," Dumbledore said with a gentle smile.
"Nagini?" Bathilda's eyes widened as she peered at her. "The name is familiar… from Newt's letters, years ago… the Maledictus? Good heavens! You look wonderful, my dear!"
Once the tea and sherry were poured, Bathilda settled into her armchair, a predatory gleam in her old eyes. "So, Albus, you brought these lovely ladies to hear about the old days, did you?"
"I thought a historical perspective would be edifying," Dumbledore said, a note of caution entering his voice.
"Oh, I'll give them a historical perspective, alright," Bathilda chuckled, a wicked, conspiratorial sound. She leaned forward, her gaze fixed on Ariana and Nagini. "Did he ever tell you about the time he tried to transfigure a goat into a tea cozy for his O.W.L.s?"
Dumbledore choked on his sherry. "Now, Bathy, I don't think that's entirely relevant…"
"Nonsense!" she cackled. "It was the most magnificent disaster I've ever seen! The goat ended up with a tartan pattern and kept trying to bleat the Hogwarts school song! He only got an
'Acceptable' because the examiner was laughing too hard to fail him!"
For the next two hours, Albus Dumbledore, the defeater of Grindelwald, the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, the most powerful wizard of the age, was subjected to a systematic and hilarious dismantling of his dignified public persona.
Bathilda, with the flawless memory of a true historian and the vicious glee of an old friend, recounted a litany of Albus's most embarrassing moments.
She told them about his "experimental phase" with hair-charming spells, which had once resulted in his magnificent auburn hair turning a bright, unapologetic shade of fuchsia for an entire week.
"He claimed it was a political statement about the rights of magical creatures," she chortled, "but we all knew he'd just gotten the incantation wrong."
She described his disastrous first attempt at asking a girl to the Yule Ball, which involved a miscalculated serenade spell that accidentally enchanted a suit of armour to sing passionate love songs to Professor Dippet for three straight days.
She even revealed his secret, teenage passion for writing dreadful, angst-ridden poetry, which he would sign with the pen name "Alastor the Anguished."
Dumbledore sat through it all, his face shifting through various shades of red, from a faint pink to a deep, mortified crimson. He tried to interject, to change the subject, but Bathilda would just wave a dismissive, wrinkled hand at him.
Ariana and Nagini listened, utterly enthralled. Nagini, whose own life had been so devoid of simple joy, found herself laughing, a real, deep, rusty sound that seemed to surprise even herself.
Ariana watched the great Albus Dumbledore squirm under the merciless teasing of his oldest friend, and she felt a profound, logical affection. This was the man behind the legend—the brilliant, flawed, and occasionally ridiculous boy who had once turned his own hair pink.
"And my personal favorite," Bathilda said, leaning in for the grand finale, "was the Great Niffler Incident of 1898."
"Bathilda, I implore you, not that story," Dumbledore pleaded, his eyes wide with genuine panic.
"He was trying to create a charm to attract shiny objects," Bathilda explained gleefully. "To help him find a lost cufflink. But he overpowered the spell. For the next twenty-four hours, every Niffler within a ten-mile radius descended upon Godric's Hollow. They stole everything! Teaspoons, spectacles, the mayor's ceremonial chain! It took three days for the Ministry's Department for the
Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures to sort it all out. Albus had to spend a month polishing their cages as punishment."
As Bathilda finished, weak with laughter, Dumbledore simply buried his face in his hands, defeated.
Ariana looked at the great wizard, her own lips twitching with a smile. She made a silent, mental note. The Niffler story was an excellent piece of data. It would be a useful, humanizing anecdote to deploy in future Order of the Phoenix meetings, whenever the mood became too tense.
Later, as they walked back to the village square to take their Portkey, Dumbledore was uncharacteristically quiet.
"A most… edifying afternoon, Professor," Ariana said, her voice laced with a gentle amusement.
Dumbledore sighed, a long, theatrical sound. "You must understand, Ariana," he said, a twinkle finally returning to his eyes. "Historians are the most dangerous keepers of secrets in the world. They remember everything." He looked at her, a wry smile on his face. "And I trust that the details of my fuchsia phase will remain a matter of the strictest confidence between us?"
"Of course, Professor," Ariana replied smoothly. "Your secret is safe with me. For now."
As they walked back to the Square, they see a person standing there, looking at the village with a lost and sad look. His eyes move towards the approaching trio. Albus stops, "I searched everywhere for you, after you sold the Hogs Head and moved, you could have at least sent a letter."
Nagini was also looking at the man who had magically adopted Credence, thereby pulling their family into the magical line of Dumbledore. "I remember you."
Ariana simply looked at Aberforth Dumbledore. The brother of Albus and Ariana Dumbledore of the past. A man who had fled the moment he had seen Ariana's face in the newspaper. A man who did not wish to confront his past where he had failed. A long talk was overdue.