A/N: Thank you to my fantastic betas, Kelly Chambliss and Pale Moonlite, who worked miracles on this tale. One literal and one paraphrased quote are from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, page 287 of the British hardcover edition. No money is being made, no copyright infringement intended.

The Ladies of Godric's Hollow

by Tetley

- 1997 -

If anyone were ever to make a film about Godric's Hollow, it would be one of them art features where nothing ever happens, and everything is black and white.

Shepherd John Whitby was sure of it as he sat under the awning of his caravan, smoking a pipe and watching his flock graze in the drizzle of a cold summer afternoon.

Nothing ever happened in Godric's Hollow.

The young ones had long left the village, going where the jobs were, and even many of the older folks had begun trading their draughty cottages for tiny, identical boxes in what they now called assisted living communities. Those who still lived here left in the mornings and returned in the evenings, save Paul Farnham and Eliza Shunpike and himself, who had nothing to leave Godric's Hollow for.

Wouldn't even notice the absence of colour, Whitby thought as he pulled the zipper of his jumper a little higher, not with the weather being like this. Never had such a drab summer since Maggie had left him for that hotel fellow in town.

It hadn't always been like that. Godric's Hollow once had been a colourful place. Whitby watched a smoke ring dissolve in the fog as he fondly remembered the time when the hippies were still here. Young couples, most of them, kind folks with lots of babies, and with a talent for attracting strange goings-on and even stranger visitors. Kate Pritchett had said they had supernatural powers; she knew, she'd said, because her brother had married one of them. Then again, Kate Pritchett also sent her toenail clippings to a fortune teller up North. True, there had been that evening when Paul Farnham and he could have sworn that they'd seen a flying motorbike. Just as likely, though, that one of the ales that night had been a bit off. Pete Abbott had said so, too.

In any case, the time of the hippies was long over. Most of them had left after that terrible explosion that had killed the young family, and those few who had remained simply faded into the grey-in-grey background. Like Eliza Shunpike, whose son was now in the Navy, or so one heard.

CRACK!

The sudden noise made Whitby look up. A flock of crows fluttered up by a tree near the country road, shouting its collective indignation at the perpetrator. Must be Paul's engine backfiring again. Been doing that a lot of late, last time when that dead ringer for Klondike Annie appeared here, poking her nose into all sorts of old stuff. He'd pay him a visit later that evening. Better have a look at that engine.

He reached into his pocket to retrieve his matchbox. Damn fog had made his pipe go cold again. He lit it ceremoniously, and when he looked up, he saw someone walking by the country road.

Busy day, he thought.

Squinting, he saw that the passer-by was a woman. An old one in a purple overcoat, leaning heavily on a cane with a silver handle. Wasn't she that friend or sister or whatever of Miss Bagshot's?

Poor Miss Bagshot. He didn't like her much; never had, even when the lights had still been on in that brain. The young hippie girl with the husband and two beaus had said that she once was a professor or something. Well, he wasn't sure about that. All he knew was that to him, she'd always seemed strange, ancient already when he was a boy, taciturn and not a little scary. Now, if he believed in supernatural powers and toenails and things, well, there would have been the perfect witch.

No, he didn't like her much, but still, he couldn't help worrying what would become of her, now that Mary was gone. Mary used to check on Miss Bagshot twice a day, to make sure she ate and help her dress and things. Left her husband, though, like all of them. Moved to the Continent with the children, or so one heard. See? One couldn't keep a wife in this drab place even when one had a decently-paying job. Poor Reg.

"Morning, Mam," he shouted, but the woman didn't answer.