Harry waited patiently for Hermione to give the all-clear. He'd wanted to go straight to Godric's Hollow the morning after their talk, but Hermione had insisted on erring on the side of caution. She was certain that Voldemort would expect Harry to return to the village at some point and had created plans within plans for disguises, distractions, and potential escapes. So, a full week later, Polyjuiced into a young Muggle couple and hidden beneath the Cloak, they Apparated just outside the snowy village of Godric's Hollow.
Harry's nerves were so frayed that a thick sense of nausea made it nearly impossible for him to focus. The prospect of seeing his parents' graves and their old home filled him with both hope and dread, and his only lifeline was Hermione's small hand laced with his.
They had entered the village by cover of night, the inky blackness above them interspersed with flickering stars. Small, well-built cottages lined either side of the thin cobbled street, wreathes and signs and other yuletide images twinkling in their windows. Yellow-orange streetlights provided little visible light. Harry thought it looked like a Christmas postcard.
After Harry convinced her that they were disguised enough abandon the Cloak, Hermione took a moment to truly appreciate the subtle beauty of the village. Keeping their hands clasped together, she kicked at the snowdrifts and giggled.
"It's so lovely here!" she said quietly. "There's so much snow."
As they walked, Harry heard the sounds of cheering and laughter from a nearby pub. The smell of fried food made his mouth water, and he was about to joke to Hermione about grabbing a spot to eat after they left when he saw her face. She looked so serene with snow falling around her, even if the face she wore wasn't her own. When they heard a carol pick up from the nearby church, she nodded to herself.
"It's Christmas Eve," she said simply.
"Yeah, I thought so as well," he responded. "Sorry I didn't get you anything. Been a touch busy lately."
She laughed. "Oh no, that won't do. We'll have to fix that somehow."
After a few minutes, they reached a war memorial that jutted out of the ground like a marble obelisk. As they approached it, it transformed. Instead of the obelisk covered in names, there stood a statue of three people; a man with unruly hair and glasses, a woman with long, wavy hair and a kind face, and a baby boy in his mother's arms. Snow capped their heads, crowning them like white halos.
"That's you," Hermione whispered, tightening her grip on his hand.
"Yeah," he said thickly. "C'mon." He turned toward the church, leading Hermione toward the kissing gate at the graveyard's entrance. They followed the path away from the church and into rows upon rows of snow-covered tombstones and grave markers. Harry noticed familiar names: Abbotts and Bones and even a Black or two. Hermione had remarked openly about the two Dumbledore graves: Kendra and Ariana.
"He never mentioned – ?" she began.
"No," he said evenly. "But then, he kept secrets from everyone. Played his cards far too close to the chest, that man."
Harry's early resentment of Albus Dumbledore had paled into an acquiescent apathy. He had accepted that Dumbledore had secrets he didn't want brought to light, and that he felt the only one he trusted enough to keep his full confidence was himself. Rather than anger, Harry felt pity for the man he had so respected and admired, that he spent so much of his life feeling alone. He was absorbed in his thoughts and nearly missed a crumbling, mossy stone with a large "P" on it, and had to double back.
"Oh," he said, disappointed. "I thought it said Potter," and he turned away.
"Hold on," Hermione insisted, tugging on his hand. When he looked at the stone, the first thing he noticed was that the name etched upon it was nearly entirely eroded. The second thing was the symbol.
"Grindelwald's mark!" he exclaimed. "Hold on, give me a little light, I want to read the name."
She cast a weak Lumos and pointed it at the name on the headstone.
"Ig – Ignatius? Ignotus? Yeah, I think it says Ignotus. The surname starts with a "P", but it's so far gone I can't read it. Write the name down, we might be able to look it up later."
After she was finished, they trekked on, huddled together against the chill. Not wanting to rush, but all too aware that they were on a time limit, they merely skimmed names searching for his parents. After a little while, the caroling stopped and the church lights shut off with a clunk. To save time, Harry and Hermione briefly separated to look for the Potters, and only a few minutes later, Harry heard Hermione's voice call out to him.
"Harry, they're here.."
His parents' marble tombstone shone brightly in the darkness. He felt like his heart was beating out of his chest, making so much noise that Hermione would be able to hear it. He knelt down before the marker and took it all in. He felt Hermione kneel down beside him as he read the engraved words:
James Potter, b. 27 March 1960 – d. 31 October 1981
Lily Evans Potter, b. 30 January 1960 – d. 31 October 1981
The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.
Harry drank the words in, turning them over and over in his mind. They had been so young, barely into their twenties. They should've been working on their Masteries or starting jobs, going to the Leaky with Sirius and Remus for drinks, endlessly in love and joy with one another and their son, not buried in the Earth this way. He re-read the last of the words enscripted aloud.
"The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death…" Harry was merely confused. "I don't – doesn't that sound a bit like his mantra?"
"I don't think it's meant to be literal," she said gently. "I think it means living beyond death. Like the Christians, they believe in eternal life after death. I think it's something similar."
"But," he said quietly, "but, they're not alive. They're here, in the ground. I – I don't… It hurts, Hermione," and he broke down before he could stop himself. The tears burned his eyes, freezing on his cheeks. Hermione wrapped her arms around him and held him as he knelt, wishing that his parents could be there with him, or that he could be buried there with them. At least then they'd be together. They knelt there long enough for the remnants of the Polyjuice potion to fizzle out of their systems, and Harry was brought out of his thoughts by the sound of Hermione speaking.
"…think he's a great man, Mrs. Potter. He does so much for everyone around him. He saved my life, you know, in our first year. This idiot boy had been pestering and making fun of me for weeks, and I cried for hours in a bathroom. When the troll attacked me, Harry came in right after it. He was so small then, so in over his head, but he still helped me. Jumped right on the troll's back and stuck his wand up its nose," she laughed, then, "He's been my best friend ever since," she turned to face him, "and I love him, very much."
Harry couldn't help the burning sensation in his chest, but he was able to keep the newly forming tears from falling. He cleared his throat and decided to follow Hermione's lead.
"Hi Mum, Dad. I know I'm a little late visiting, but we've been busy. A lot's happened, and I don't know where to start, or how to start. But I'm alright for now, I'm as safe as I can be. I miss you, I think, or the idea of you. I see other people with their families, and I can't help but be jealous. I know you had to leave, why you did. I just – I wish you were here with me… I, er, I guess you've met Hermione. She's saved my skin more times than I can count. I don't know where I'd be without her. She's the most important person in my life, and I'm glad you both got to meet her. I love you both, and I promise to visit more."
Hermione raised her wand and with a flourish, a wreath of Christmas roses blossomed before the gravestone. They stood together, Hermione's hands clasped around one of his own, and they turned in silence and walked away through the snow. As they passed through the kissing gate, Hermione froze.
"There's someone over there," she whispered. "I saw something move, I swear it."
Harry nodded and pulled the Cloak and the locket from his pocket, wrapping it around them and slipping the locket around his neck. They walked ahead, glancing back repeatedly as they moved through the night. Harry felt the horrid trickle of fear curl itself around his spine and did his best to ignore it. They passed the pub from earlier; it was fuller and noisier than before. Villagers young and old were inside, singing the carol that they had heard as they approached the church. Hermione tugged on his arm, pulling him through the dark street leading away from where they had entered. The frigid air had frozen the fallen snow into a slick, slippery blanket, and both Harry and Hermione had trouble keeping their balance. They ambled on as quickly as they could, past ostentatiously decorated cottages and more twinkling Christmas lights.
Hermione was asking him about finding Bathilda Bagshot when he froze on the spot. The cottage was small, smaller than the others he had seen in the village. The lawn was overgrown, waist-high grass covering every inch. Most of the cottage was still standing and covered in dark ivy and encased in snow, but the right side of the top floor had been blown apart, the once-ivory stucco blackened and charred.
"I wonder why nobody's ever rebuilt it?" whispered Hermione.
"It's a monument," Harry said immediately.
Harry reached out and touched the gate, ignoring Hermione's hissing. As soon as his hand brushed the iron, a sign rose out of the ground in front of them, and written in golden letters were the words:
On this spot, on the night of 31 October 1981,
Lily and James Potter lost their lives.
Their son, Harry, remains the only wizard ever to have survived
the Killing Curse. This house, invisible to Muggles,
has been left in its ruined state as a monument
to the Potters and as a reminder of
the violence that tore apart their family.
All around these neatly lettered words scribbles had been added at some point or another, words of support and encouragement, or otherwise remorse and pity, left by witches and wizards who had come to see where the Boy-Who-Lived had defied fate. Some had left their initials while others had left messages. Harry ignored the brightest and what he assumed were the most recent in favor of some of the more faded words.
Wherever you are, Harry, we wish you the best. You saved us all.
I'm so sorry, James. It should have been me. The rat will die, I swear it.
You are missed, Lily.
Harry thought it was brilliant. He read out some of the messages to Hermione, who huffed and insisted it was in poor taste to deface a monument. As he spoke, Harry saw a dark figure out of the corner of his eye and twisted, shielding Hermione behind him. It was a woman, obviously elderly by her posture and gait, and she was staring directly at them. She beckoned them, somehow sensing them despite the Cloak, and they cautiously shuffled forward.
Harry spoke up quietly, scaring Hermione and causing her to jump.
"Professor Bagshot?"
The woman nodded quickly and beckoned them again.
Underneath the Cloak, Harry looked at Hermione, raising his eyebrows. She gave him a tiny, nervous nod, and they followed behind her. She led them past several houses, finally turning in at a gate. The path leading to the house was just as overgrown as his parents' old home. Bathilda fumbled at the door before opening it, letting them pass.
The home reeked of rot, sickly sweet and burning their noses. Harry pulled the Cloak off and pocketed it as they passed the threshold. As she faced the pair, Harry saw that the old woman looked truly awful. Her hands were mottled and blue, her face covered with liver spots and broken veins. Her eyes were riddled with cataracts and deeply yellowed. He shivered at the sight and moved into the den, Hermione right on his heels.
As Bathilda moved closer, Harry felt the locket around his neck rattle. It had somehow gone frigid and burned his chest, and it was making a quiet ticking sound. At first Harry thought it might be reacting to the presence of Gryffindor's sword, that Hermione had been right after all. But the more he thought, the less confident he felt in that assumption. Something was wrong. He turned on his heel to Hermione, who had just done the same.
"I don't like this," they said simultaneously.
"Let's see what she wants, okay? But we don't separate for any reason, and stay close," he whispered. She nodded her understanding and they turned back to the woman.
She was struggling to light the numerous candles littered about the den, and Harry offered to help her. The dim light cast upon the room only unsettled Harry more. The home and its owner had clearly been abandoned for months, if not years. Moldy teacups and plates littered the floor and a thick layer of dust coated nearly every surface. Harry's attention was drawn to a nearby chest of drawers upon which stood a large number of photographs. He glanced from the photos to Bathilda, who was jerkily tending to a small flame in the fireplace, and muttered "Tergeo": The dust and grime wiped from the frames. Most were empty and cracked, but a small photo in the back caught his attention and he snatched it up, holding it up for Hermione to see.
"Hermione, look. He – I saw a vision, do you remember? Whoever this is stole a wand from Gregorovitch. I saw him again in Skeeter's book. Have you ever seen him before? Do you know who he is?"
She shook her head. "No, Harry, I don't recognize him. Maybe we could ask? Miss Bagshot, who is this boy?"
She stared at them and said nothing.
"Why did you ask us to come with you, Miss Bagshot?" asked Hermione, raising her voice. The feeling that something was wrong, horribly wrong intensified in the back of Harry's mind. "Was there something you wanted to tell us?"
Bathilda gave no sign that she had heard Hermione and shuffled closer to Harry, jerking her head toward the stairs close to the front door. She pointed at Harry, then at herself, then up toward the ceiling.
"You want us to go upstairs with you?" Harry asked hesitantly. Bathilda shook her head violently. She pointed again at herself, then Harry, then up.
"You want me to go with you alone? I don't think so," Harry said. "Either we both go, or we leave."
Hermione had stiffened next to him and tugged on his sleeve. "Harry," she said quietly, "I think we should leave."
Harry stared at Bathilda for a moment and then nodded his head. He muttered a quick goodbye and lead Hermione toward the front door quickly, but then several things happened at once: his scar twinged painfully; the locket at his neck jerked around; he heard the familiar cold voice speak: Hold him!
Harry felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle and turned just in time to shove Hermione out of the way as fangs sank deep into his forearm, knocking him to the ground. Where once a woman stood, there was a great snake coiling on the floor, hissing violently.
"Hold you," it hissed. "Mussst hold you for him…"
It reared its massive head and lashed forward again, but Harry rolled out of the way and sprang to his feet. He grabbed Hermione by the collar and waved his wand at the front door, blasting it into splinters. He heard the serpent slithering quickly behind him and turned once more, hoping that it was too far away to strike again.
He felt the horcrux burn harshly again, the cold metal beating like a heart, and his vision changed once more. He was flying, ever closer to the boy…He felt triumph, his victory was so near…
Harry came to in the middle of Hermione screaming at him, for he had frozen where he stood. She was blasting curses at the snake, but it seemed to have some sort of protection. The spells were rebounding away from its smooth hide and hitting the façade of the house.
"Hermione, he's coming! He's coming, and he's nearly here!"
He gripped Hermione's hand tightly, making to Apparate away, but then he felt a searing pain in his calf. He looked down to see the snake had latched itself to him and was attempting to pull him back toward the house. Hermione had his hand and was tugging with all her strength to get them away. Pistons were firing in Harry's brain, trying to come up with some kind of plan to escape, his head felt like it was splitting open with the pain from his scar –
In the back of Harry's mind, he remembered two words scribbled across a yellowed page: For enemies. He shoved his wand under the snake's head and bellowed: "Sectumsempra!" Immediately the jaws around his legs released him. He saw the coiling body of the snake writhe, headless and bloody. Seeing that he was free from the snake's grasp, Hermione wrapped herself around him and twisted on the spot…
And then his scar exploded in agony and he was Voldemort running across the lawn, his pale, ghastly hands reaching for the boy even as he and the mudblood vanished on the spot. He felt Nagini's death throes and raged into the night air, his screams of fury mingling with the church bells ringing in Christmas Day…
