Nourishment for Wild Grass

The arrow-shaped signpost had faded paint, but the remaining words were barely legible, pointing in two different directions:

"Great Hangleton, 5 miles ahead."

"Little Hangleton, 1 mile ahead."

Harry glanced back at the shrinking signpost, then looked over the hedgerows on either side, feeling somewhat dazed. He had seen these scenes before—in the Pensieve, in Bob Ogden's memories from when he was young, about fifty years ago.

They followed the small road toward Little Hangleton, turned right just before entering the village, and slipped through an inconspicuous gap in a side path. Before them lay an even narrower, steeper dirt road, where wildly overgrown weeds and bushes tangled together. Rocks and potholes covered the way, and all traces of past footsteps had vanished.

The path beneath their feet was rough and difficult, but fortunately, it had not rained, so no stubborn mud clung to their shoes. As they followed the dirt road into the woods, the light immediately dimmed. Thick, lush branches blotted out the sky, while twisted roots sprawled across the ground like knotted pythons.

Loren led everyone deeper into the woods, a faintly nostalgic expression on his face.

He could not quite remember the way anymore. Otherwise, he would have simply Apparated them here. Why make them trudge through all this?

Which raised a question: why had Dumbledore not used Apparition when he brought him here last time?

Oh, he had not known the way either. Never mind, then.

As a concealed wizarding residence, Gaunt's old house had been excellently situated. It stood near the Muggle village of Little Hangleton, allowing its residents to obtain necessary daily supplies from there, yet it was far from human habitation, surrounded by complex, confusing terrain. If trouble came knocking, even if every Auror in the Ministry of Magic were mobilized, the