Just as Harry felt the quiet finality of their visit settling over him, Ariana spoke, her voice gently pulling him from his reverie. "There is one more stop we need to make before we leave Godric's Hollow."
Harry, emotionally drained but feeling a strange new sense of peace, looked at her questioningly.
"Another one?"
"A living one," she replied. "It is one thing to see history carved in stone. It is another to hear it from someone who witnessed it. Come."
She led him away from the ruin of his family home and down a small, cobbled lane to a particularly ancient and crooked cottage that seemed to be held up more by the thick ivy covering it than by its own timber frame. The garden was a chaotic but beautiful jungle of magical plants and overgrown flowers. This, Harry knew from his reading, was the home of Bathilda Bagshot, the celebrated author of Hogwarts: A History.
Ariana knocked gently on the weathered oak door. After a long moment, it creaked open, and a tiny, incredibly ancient witch peered out. She was so wrinkled that her face seemed to be a road map of the centuries she had lived through. Her eyes, however, behind thick, lensed spectacles, were sharp and surprisingly bright.
"Yes?" she rasped, her voice thin as dry paper. Her gaze fell on Ariana. "Ah, the little alchemist's apprentice. It is good to see you again, child."
Then her eyes shifted to Harry, and they widened in profound, joyous recognition. A fragile, trembling smile spread across her face.
"Merlin's beard," she breathed, her voice filled with a sudden, fierce emotion. "It's Harry. Lily's boy. You've come home."
She shuffled aside, her movements frail but eager, and beckoned them into the cottage.
The inside was a cozy, cluttered labyrinth of books. They were stacked on every surface, piled in corners, and overflowing from groaning shelves that reached the low, beamed ceiling. The air smelled of old paper, dried herbs, and a faint hint of sherry.
"Sit, sit," Bathilda insisted, gesturing to two mismatched, chintz armchairs by a cold hearth. "Tea! We must have tea!"
While the old witch busied herself with a self-heating kettle and a chipped porcelain teapot, Ariana spoke softly to Harry. "Bathilda was a close friend to both your family and the Dumbledores. She knew your parents when they were just children, running through these very streets."
Bathilda returned with a tray, her hands shaking slightly as she poured the tea. She sat opposite Harry, her bright, intelligent eyes studying him intently.
"You have your mother's eyes," she said, her voice full of a fond, aching sadness. "I remember when she first arrived here, a brilliant, fiery little thing, so full of life and magic. And your father… oh, James was a handful. Cocky, arrogant, but with a heart of gold buried under all that swagger. They were a force of nature, the two of them."
For the next hour, Harry sat spellbound as Bathilda Bagshot, the great magical historian, became just Bathy, a loving neighbor recounting stories of the people she had known.
She didn't speak of prophecies or dark lords. She spoke of James Potter learning to ride his first toy broom, terrorizing the village cats. She told a story of a teenage Lily Evans accidentally turning the vicar's tea into a wriggling tadpole and being both mortified and secretly proud. She painted a picture of his parents not as martyred saints, but as real, vibrant, flawed, and loving people. She spoke of their happiness when Harry was born, of the quiet joy that filled the little house at the end of the lane. And she spoke of their fear as the world grew dark around them, of their fierce, desperate love for their son.
"They were so brave, you know," Bathilda finished, her voice a reedy whisper, her old eyes shining with unshed tears. "They knew the risks. They stood their ground. They gave you everything."
Listening to her, Harry felt the final pieces of his identity click into place. The photo album had given him their faces. The graveyard had given him the reality of their loss.
The ruined house had shown him the site of their sacrifice. But Bathilda… Bathilda had given him their life. She had filled the black-and-white images with colour and sound and laughter.
When it was time to leave, Bathilda hugged Harry tightly, her frail frame surprisingly strong. "You come back and visit an old woman anytime, Harry Potter," she said firmly. "This village is as much your home as Hogwarts is. Don't you forget that."
As they walked back to the village square, Harry felt a profound sense of closure. The day had been emotionally devastating, but it had also been incredibly healing. The vague, shadowy horrors in his mind had been replaced with real memories, real stories, real love.
"Thank you, Ariana," he said, his voice quiet but full of a depth of gratitude he couldn't fully express. "I… I needed that."
"I know," she replied simply.
They took the Portkey and returned to the quiet sanctuary of her London flat. The rest of the summer passed in a peaceful, productive rhythm. Harry stayed with her for another week, a week of comfortable companionship, good food, and absolutely no shouting.
Ariana guided him through some of his summer homework, not giving him the answers, but teaching him the underlying principles in a way that made the magic finally make sense to him.
The last week of August, they all met in Diagon Alley to buy their third-year supplies. The reunion was a happy, boisterous affair. Ron was full of stories about Egyptian tombs, and Hermione was ecstatic to be back in a world of magical books. The quartet of girls—Ariana, Hermione, Daphne, and Tracey—reconvened with an easy familiarity, their unlikely alliance now a solid, accepted fact.
As they stood outside Flourish and Blotts, their arms full of new books, Harry felt a sense of belonging so strong it was a physical warmth in his chest. He looked at his friends—at Ron, loyal and loud; at Hermione, brilliant and confident; at Daphne and Tracey, his new, unexpected allies; and at Ariana, the calm, powerful center of their world.
The train ride back to Hogwarts was filled with laughter and excitement. They were a team, stronger and more unified than ever before. Harry knew the coming year would hold new dangers—the news of Sirius Black's escape from Azkaban was on the front page of every paper. But for the first time, he wasn't afraid. He had faced the ghosts of his past. He had a home to return to.
And he had friends who would stand with him, no matter what came. He was ready.