Potter’s Cottage

Down in a well-sized English village of Godric's Hollow past the little lane that curves left, there beyond is the heart of village set in the small-town square. There are several shops, a post office, a pub, and even a little church whose stained-glass windows were glowing jewel-bright in the late evening from the lighting found inside. Tomorrow was a workday, and most of the villagers had already headed home for the evening apart from a few late-night stragglers, and those that were retired and no longer needed to work.

A trio of friends stumbles out of the pub helping their potbellied friend home. The village street lamps in the main square lit the road. A soft pop behind them causes one of the members of the tipsy trio to turn around and squint behind them. He was unable to see anything and was just about to turn away when one of the lamps also went out.

Shaking his head, the tipsy man mutters something about taxes, and shoddy workmanship, before stumbling away home. He was sure to get an earful from his wife, but that would not be until tomorrow. In the meantime, his only goal was to get home and did not have time to worry about the night lamps going out.

Striding in the gloomy darkness is a tall, thin wizard with long silvery hair and a beard that glows underneath the bright moonlight. Albus Dumbledore's childlike blue eyes sparkle with mischief from behind half-moon spectacles set upon a long, broken nose. With another click of his cigarette lighter, the Put-Outer, another muggle lamp goes out.

"It never ceases to amaze me the simple delights of life," Albus cheerfully mumbled to himself as he made his way through Godric's Hollow to the fringes of the village. However, that expression quickly fades away as he approaches the home of Bathilda Bagshot and the once upon time residence of the Dumbledores.

Something akin to pain and countless other emotions flashes across Albus's face before a façade of calmness settles onto his face. Swiftly walking down, the road, the tip of his buckled high heeled boots peeks out from under his dark blue robes at his brisk pace. He had not yet walked past the home of Bathilda Bagshot, when a raspy, but the old familiar voice says, "Albus Dumbledore, and just where are you off too in such a hurry that you do not have time to speak to this old witch?"

"Professor Bagshot," Albus immediately replied as he paused at the entrance of a garden gate. "How are you on this cool autumn evening?"

A petite witch with wispy white hair appears from behind the hedges. Her eyes are sunken with age, and there are traces of faint liver spots on her face. Tucking a black shawl around her, she shivers from the cool wind announcing autumn, when she scrunches her eyes peering up at him. "You are still the same as ever, Albus, always too proud and arrogant for your own good," Bathilda Bagshot chided him.

Albus feels a spasm of pain in his chest before a bittersweet smile appears on his face. "I would know my own failings better than anyone else, Madam Bagshot."

"Such a tragedy," Bathilda mused out loud to herself. "First Percival went mad and attacked those boys. I never truly understood, why he did so? He was such a kind man, and he certainly did not seem to hate muggles since he married Kendra. It was such a shame when he was sentenced to Azkaban, and soon passed away."

Lost in her own mind from old age, Bathilda fails to notice the stark raw pain on Albus's face. "And Kendra, well, she was such a solitary woman for a muggleborn. I never quite understood her offhand ways. I can only conclude she was terribly prejudiced against the rest of us after what happened to your father, poor Percival."

"Mm, and that sister of yours, Ariana. Oh yes, she was a strange, wee bit lass. But then again at least she was quiet, now Aberforth, that scrawny rascal was always off getting into a spot of trouble with the other boys. I can't count the number of times the neighbors came to complain to your mother about him," Bathilda recounted before her expression turned grim.

"And then Kendra passed away so very suddenly," Bathilda lamented. "Poor girl, Ariana was never quite the same after that. Oh, I'm certain that you did your best Albus, yes, you did. But you always had that long, crooked nose of yours stuck in a book and never paid much of a mind to that poor chit. Mm, if only Aberforth had not been still at Hogwarts's, perhaps, things would have been so very different."

Bathilda let out a loud sigh as she says, "And then my poor misguided great-nephew, Gellert arrived that summer. Oh, the two of you were as thick as thieves, I can clearly recall. The two of you always had your heads bent over some book and were avidly discussing some obscure piece of knowledge."

"And then Ariana died," Bathilda faltered. "Gellert fled that night, and the rest is history and one that we all know only too well and regret." Raising her gaze to meet that of Albus's, she hesitantly finally asks a question that had been haunting her for countless years. "Gellert didn't have anything to do with Ariana's sudden death, did he, Albus?"

Albus is silent for a moment, before carefully answering, "Not that I know of." Because it was the bitter truth. It could have easily been his own spell that had struck down his own flesh and blood.

Relieved Bathilda solemnly says, "Best not to blame yourself, Albus, it was a mere accident," causing Albus's eyes to glitter with raw emotion.

Turning her white-haired head, Bathilda points at the former residence of the Dumbledore family. "A lovely muggleborn family lives there now, Sue and Allen Pier. The wife is a bit too chatty if you ask me, but the husband is a hard worker, and their children aren't too awful."

Albus is unable to respond except to briskly nod his head. He had sold the old family home unable to abide with the tortuous memories found therein. Aberforth had fought Albus with tooth and nail indignant over the sale, but in the end, Albus had prevailed. It had been another mistake, and the final nail that had nailed the coffin shut. After that, his younger brother, Aberforth never spoken to him again except in passing at the Hogs Head Inn.

"Would you like to come in for a cup of tea, lad?" Bathilda asked as she wrapped her black shawl tighter around her.

"No, thank you, Madam Bagshot, I am in hurry," Albus sincerely answered with a tinge of relief in his voice.

Bathilda sniffs, before wagging her old, crooked finger at him. "Then I best be seeing you come down to the village to have a cup of tea with this old witch, you hear, young man."

"Yes, Professor Bagshot," Albus respectfully replied to his former History Professor.

Bathilda removes a hankie from her pocket and loudly blows, before shuffling away up and through the garden path to her own home. Albus remains still in place until the old witch enters her home. Dragging his sight from his old childhood residence, Albus all but flees down the road unable to bear the painful sight. But some ghosts are not made of the flesh nor the dead, but rather of memories from the past.