Doris Crockford awoke in her little flat over a storefront in Diagon Alley, where she had lived for a dozen years since her husband’s death. A brown owl was knocking on the window of her bedroom. She could see it from where she lay cozily under the blankets, reluctant to get up. Sleeping in late was one of the few privileges of old age; no pressing duties required an early arising. But the bird was insistent and the sound was annoying. Finally Doris resigned herself to pushing back the thick quilts and swinging her skinny legs over the side of the bed, sliding her feet into slippers. She opened the window, letting in the cold air, and the bird hopped onto the sill.

Doris untied the scroll from its leg and looked at the signature on the parchment: Matilda, an old friend who still lived in Godric’s Hollow. Then Doris scanned the message: Doris, there’s been an unbelievable event. Last night a cottage exploded here in Godric’s Hollow. Two people are dead. You-Know-Who involved. People say he was in the explosion, injured or killed. No one knows for sure. All rumors.

Doris stared at the bit of parchment, re-read the message, and then picked up a quill from her bedside table and wrote a reply on the bottom of the note: Will come by Floo this morning. They had been friends for decades. She knew, without Matilda’s having to say it, that that was what Matilda wanted, to share this moment together. She tied the scroll to the owl’s leg again and gave him a treat from the jar in her tiny kitchen, only a few steps from her bedroom, and he flew off.

Then, after dressing in her warmest robes, with several underlayers, Doris took some hasty tea and toast, her mind in a whirl with questions. What had happened? What did it mean for the wizarding world? She had been planning to put her garden to bed today, a tiny plot behind the building, but that would have to wait. She walked down the stairs into the street.

A surprising number of people were in the street, given the early hour. The shops were not open yet, but these people were not the morning’s first customers. Doris recognized them as her neighbors, elderly pensioners who, like herself, inhabited the tiny flats over the shops, but this morning they were acting anything but elderly. Eager chatter filled the street — “I heard that he’s dead” — “Oh, if only it’s true” — “What wonderful news” — “I can hardly believe it” — “I never dreamed…” Old women were hugging one another; old men were dancing spry steps on the cobblestones, joining hands and whirling around. Laughter rang out, and tears of joy were being wiped from wrinkled faces.

“How did it happen?”

“He tried to kill a baby, but he accidentally killed himself…”

“No…”

Doris threaded her way between the excited witches and wizards and walked straight to the public Floos, where short lines of people were forming. Were they all going to Godric’s Hollow, she wondered. Would the village be crowded? But the destinations they announced as they stepped into the flames were all over the map. They were going to their families and friends. She stepped up to the Floo and tossed her powder into the flames.

“Godric’s Hollow.”

Doris came out of the Floo in the back room of a shop in Godric’s Hollow which she had often patronized in years gone by, when she had lived in the village. In the sales room, among shelves of dry goods, hardware, and household items, the proprietor was standing with his back to her, staring out the window towards the street, but he turned at the sound of her footsteps.

“Hello, Bob. My friend Matilda — you know her? — sent me a message that You-Know-Who was dead, a house explosion, and I came to see.”

“Hello, Mrs. Crockford. Yes, that’s what they’re saying.” Bob returned to staring out the window, as if waiting for something.

Doris brushed the traces of ash off her cloak. “I’ll just run over to her house.”

In the street, Doris hastened towards her friend’s cottage while dozens of people streamed by on the road, going in the opposite direction. Once at Matilda’s door, Doris rapped with the knocker and, upon hearing Matilda’s voice calling “Come in,” she entered the little house and the two old ladies greeted each other with a warm embrace.

“I’m so glad you came,” Matilda said with a wan smile. “It’s been so upsetting.”

“What happened?” Doris asked. Matilda sat down on her sofa, and Doris took an armchair nearby.

“There was a big Boom in the night,” Matilda began. “It woke me up. I thought it was thunder because it had been raining. I listened for more thunder, but there wasn’t any, so I went back to sleep. Then, when it was just starting to get light, the neighbor’s boy pounded on my door. He was going from house to house, telling everyone that the Potters’ house had exploded and they were dead.”

“Oh, my,” Doris said. “Who were the Potters?”

“A young couple who just moved here last year. They took a cottage at the other end of town. Really nice young people. I don’t know what he did for a living, but they said he had inherited money. They had a baby, a cute little boy. I used to see them sometimes in the village.” Matilda shook her head slowly and sadly.

“Is he dead too, the baby?” Doris asked.

“No, they say the baby survived, but some man they didn’t recognize, a big, bearded fellow, took the baby and left. All very strange.”

“Oh, those poor people. Why did the cottage explode?”

“The police are saying it was a gas leak, but you know…” Matilda leaned toward Doris and dropped her voice, “…some people are saying it was You-Know-Who’s doing.”

“How do they know?” Doris asked. “Was there a witness? Did somebody see him?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. They’re being very closed mouth about it,” Matilda said, nodding in a knowing way.

“I passed a lot of people in the lane, all going in the opposite direction.”

“They’re going to see the house,” Matilda said. “Let me get my warm things on and my boots, and we can go too. I’ve just been waiting for you.”

She stood up and put on a jacket and then a cloak, and exchanged her house slippers for boots. The two women left the cottage and walked into the lane, past the shops, the post office, the still-closed pub, and the church. There was a smell of burnt wood in the cold, crisp air. The sun was still low on the southeastern horizon, and the trees in the village had lost most of their brown and yellow leaves, creating a carpet on the ground.

The crowds of people became thicker as they passed through the heart of the village to the residential district beyond. At the edge of the village, the onlookers were just standing there in the street, not moving, staring at a cottage with a big, blackened gap in the roof. Half of it had been blown away, and charred timbers were visible in the upper story walls, or what was left of them. People in uniforms were walking around the house, which was surrounded by a barrier line of yellow police tape.

Matilda and Doris approached the scene and stopped next to the other villagers, who stood close to one another in the early morning mist, clutching their cloaks around their shoulders, not laughing or exulting, speaking to their companions in low tones.

“Have they taken the bodies out yet?” “No, I think they’re about to do it.” “What about the baby?” “Someone already took him, family, I suppose.” “Oh, that poor baby.” “And his poor mum and dad.” “Did they have relatives here?” “I heard his parents have already passed away. Don’t know about her; she wasn’t from around here.”

No one was laughing, Doris noted. No one was dancing. There were tears on faces, but not of joy.

A man in a uniform came out of the wrecked house and waved the crowd back. “Could you please make way?”

A few seconds later, two more men emerged from the front door, carrying between them a stretcher holding something covered by a blanket. The crowd of onlookers parted to the left and to the right as the stretcher bearers came down the path and passed through the gate, heading toward a van. Doris’s heart was breaking; she didn’t want to wait to see the second stretcher.

“Let’s go back,” she whispered to Matilda, who nodded and said, “Yes, we’ve seen enough.” They turned and left the murmuring crowd and began to walk down the lane.

“What were their names?” Doris asked Matilda as the tragic scene receded behind them and the pale yellow sun gleamed through the almost-leafless branches and the silvery mist.

“James and Lily Potter,” Matilda said softly. Her gloved had reached out and clasped Doris’s hand. “And the baby’s name was Harry.”