Disclaimer: All people and places within this story are the sole property of J.K. Rowling.
Chapter 2 : Gordic's Hollow
Harry shrugged deeper into his coat, and tried not to shiver. It was one of the coldest winters in history, and betrayed no signs of letting up. Dark clouds skittered across the sky, playing hide and seek with the sun.
"What exactly are you looking for?" Hermione said flatly on his left. She was trying to be a good sport, but she was miserable in the cold. Ron was grumbling at his right, and had been almost all summer.
"I don't know." Harry shrugged. He didn't know. Maybe a well kept lawn, instead of the straggly weeds pushing up. A sidewalk, instead of the cracked pavement that poked up through the grass.
The three stood at the curb, along an un-named lane, staring at the broken foundations of the house Harry's parents had spent their last days in. There wasn't much left; foundations, remnants of a front walk, and a frayed rope was all that was left of a swing in the oak out back.
Maybe he expected to find a house. Maybe, in a little corner of his mind, he expected to find someone here waiting for him.
"Why are we still here. There's nothing here." Ron grumbled. Hermione glared at him.
"Can I help you?" Harry turned. An old woman stood behind him, walking her little dog in the cold. "Can I help you find something?"
"Um…" Harry jerked his thumb over his shoulder, at the ruins. "I was looking for someone who used to live here. Do you know what happened to the house?"
The old woman frowned, and crossed the street toward him. "Why do you ask. No one has lived at this address for years. No one in your life time."
"Please," Hermione cut in. "We're older than we look."
The woman gave Hermione a critical look. "There was a family, lived here once. Young too. Running from something."
"How do you know that?" Harry cut her off.
"I could just tell. Something in their eyes. In the way that poor woman clung to her baby like he was the last good thing in the world." She shook her head ruefully.
"Did you know them well?" Harry prodded further.
"Well yes. I lived right next door. I would watch their little son sometimes. I never knew where they went, but I didn't ask questions either. Sweet boy. I don't know what ever happened to him," the old woman waxed nostalgic.
"What do you mean?"
"When firemen put out the fire – the house burned, you know – and removed the bodies, no one ever said anything about a baby. The papers only reported the deaths of two adults, and never any mention of the boy." She leaned close, gesturing conspiritoraly, "Personally, I don't think the boy's dead. Or at least I'd like to think that. I'd like to think that someone rescued him, that he's alive, and safe and well somewhere."
"Thank you," Harry said with a bittersweet smile. "And, keep thinking that." She frowned, confused as Harry turned to walk away.
And then he turned back. "Wait," he called, stopping the woman yet again. "Do you know where the couple was buried?"
In the back corner of the graveyard, at the end of the little rutted road, two grave stones stood alone under the shelter of an old oak tree. They stood apart from the other markers, separated by an expanse of grass, and something else. They didn't die like normal people. They weren't even killed like normal people. It was as if Voldemort's magic left a residue, a taint that you couldn't quite put your finger on.
Ron and Hermione remained on the road, and Harry advanced alone across the grass. Two white tombstones resting next to each other, devastating in their simplicity. James Potter and Lily Potter. Two names etched into stone and nothing else.
He didn't need to wonder if anyone else had visited this lonely grave. Someone had left flowers. One on each grave; a blood red rose, with a black ribbon tied around the stem.
Who else was visiting this cemetery?
