Harry slept more soundly that night in the spare bedroom of Ariana's London flat than he had in his entire life. The bed was comfortable, the room was quiet, and for the first time, he felt a profound and absolute sense of safety. The knowledge that the Dursleys were miles away, and that his formidable friend was just in the next room, was a more potent sleeping draught than anything Madam Pomfrey could have brewed.
He awoke to the smell of fresh coffee and toast. Ariana was already up, dressed in simple, practical travelling clothes. She had a small backpack ready by the door.
"Good morning, Harry," she said, her tone as calm and steady as ever. "Eat. We will be leaving shortly."
"Where are we going?" Harry asked, still feeling the sleepy afterglow of a truly restful night. "To the place I mentioned," she replied, offering no further explanation. Their transport was a Portkey, a small, smooth piece of sea glass that Dumbledore had provided. At precisely nine o'clock, Ariana instructed him to take hold of it. The familiar, nauseating wrench behind his navel pulled them into a vortex of swirling colour, and a moment later, their feet landed with a soft thump on a patch of damp grass.
The air was cool and smelled of wet earth and old stone. They were standing in a small, quiet village square. The houses were quaint, half-timbered cottages, and a small war memorial stood in the center. The place had an air of ancient, peaceful history.
"Where are we?" Harry asked, looking around.
"Godric's Hollow," Ariana answered softly. The name hit Harry like a physical blow. He had read it in books, heard it whispered in conversations. It was a place of legend, the place where Dumbledore had been born, where the great wizard Godric Gryffindor had lived. And it was the place where his own life had been shattered and remade.
Without another word, Ariana led him away from the square, towards a small, stone church with a sprawling graveyard beside it. The ancient tombstones were covered in moss, their inscriptions faded by centuries of wind and rain. They walked in silence, the only sound the crunch of their feet on the gravel path.
Ariana stopped before two graves, slightly apart from the others, but clearly well-tended. Harry looked down, and his breath caught in his throat. The names were carved deep and clear into the white marble.
JAMES POTTER, BORN 27 MARCH 1960, DIED 31 OCTOBER 1981
LILY POTTER, BORN 30 JANUARY 1960, DIED 31 OCTOBER 1981
And beneath the names, an inscription: The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.
He stared at the words, at the dates. It was real. This was not a story, not a legend. This was the final, quiet resting place of his mother and father. He felt a wave of grief so profound it threatened to buckle his knees. It was a cold, hollow ache, a longing for people he had never known but missed with his entire being.
Ariana did not speak. She simply stood beside him, a silent, supportive presence. She drew her wand, and with a gentle, intricate weaving motion, she conjured two beautiful, intricate wreaths of magic. One was made of shimmering, silvery lilies, their petals glowing with a soft, internal light.
The other was woven from deep red roses, their thorns softened into gentle curves. The magical flowers gave off a faint, sweet scent. She levitated them gently, placing one on each headstone. It was an act of profound, silent respect.
Harry reached out a trembling hand and traced his mother's name on the cold marble. He had no words. He could only stand there, the grief a heavy weight in his chest, his heart aching with a thousand unasked questions and a love that had never had a place to go.
After a long time, when the first wave of sorrow had passed, leaving behind a quiet, somber ache, Ariana gently touched his arm.
"There is someone else I would like you to see," she said softly.
She led him to another part of the graveyard, to a pair of older, more weathered headstones. He looked down and saw the names that had become so entwined with his own new life.
KENDRA DUMBLEDORE, 1851 - 1899
And beside it, a smaller, simpler stone.
ARIANA DUMBLEDORE, 1885 - 1899
Harry stared at the second name.
"She was fourteen when she died," Ariana said, her voice a quiet murmur. "Tormented. Frightened. A victim of a world that did not understand her." She looked at the grave, her periwinkle eyes holding a deep, ancient sadness. It was not her own sadness, but she felt its echo, a responsibility to the name and the face she now carried. "It is important to remember her, too."
Finally, she led him out of the graveyard and down a quiet, tree-lined lane. And then he saw it. At the end of the lane stood the ruin of a house. The roof was gone, the windows were blown out, and dark ivy snaked its way up the crumbling stone walls. But it was still standing, held together by a memory of magic and tragedy. A wooden sign had been driven into the ground before it, covered in magical graffiti—messages of hope, of thanks, of remembrance for the Boy Who Lived and the parents who had saved him.
This was it. The house where he was born. The house where his parents had died.
He could almost see it. The flash of green light in the upstairs window. The sound of his mother's scream. The cry of a baby. The entire defining moment of his life had happened right here, in this ruined, hallowed place.
He and Ariana stood before the gate, the silence between them thick with unspoken history. The air itself seemed to hum with the residual magic of that terrible night.
Ariana turned to him, her expression gentle, her eyes full of a profound understanding.
She was not just showing him a ruin; she was giving him a piece of himself back. She was allowing him to confront the origin of his own story, not as a legend, but as a real, tangible place.
"Do you want to go inside?" she asked, her voice soft.
The question was simple, but it held the weight of thirteen years of pain and mystery. It was an offer to step past the legend, to walk through the wreckage of his own past, and to finally, truly, begin to understand.