Chapter Twenty-Seven: Home

Harry and Hermione spent the better part of a week preparing for their visit to Godric's Hollow. Hermione spent the morning coaching Harry with his Disillusionment Charm until he was nearly unnoticeable, which made Hermione quite pleased. Harry was quick to point out however, that he had not yet achieved Dumbledore's skill with the charm. After lunch, they would review the book Remus had given Harry for his birthday. They would choose one of several Jinxes and Hexes each day to familiarize themselves with, surprised to find how many non-lethal, yet highly debilitating spells were at hand. They also tried to consciously involve emotion into their spell casting, finding it much harder than they expected. Lastly, Harry and Hermione would spend a little time trying to work out her Patronus Charm. After a few nights, Hermione could once again summon a strong gathering of silver vapor, but is shape remained ominous and unidentifiable. They agreed, however, that whatever shape her Patronus would inevitably take, it would not be the otter that had emerged during fifth year.

Meal time had also improved over the week as they decided to risk a second outing into town—disguised once more by way of Polyjuice Potion—and purchased several dry-packaged and canned goods from the market. No longer grimacing though foraged mushrooms, poorly prepared fish, or wilted berries, they fed happily on oatmeal and canned fruit for breakfast, enjoyed simple peanut-butter sandwiches for lunch, and ravished frozen entrée dishes for diner. They had likewise filled the modest kitchen pantry with several ready-to-eat survival rations, just in case.

Harry had been ready to set out for Godric's Hollow for days, but Hermione was convinced that Voldemort would expect him to return to the scene of his parent' deaths. Harry agreed that Hermione was likely right, but it did little to quell the longing that gripped at his insides. Still, with well over a week spent perfecting their Disillusionment Charms and almost flawless partnered Disapparation, Hermione agreed they were as prepared as they would ever be.

They waited until nightfall before setting out. Harry took Hermione's hand and felt suffocating darkness of Apparition, only to open his eyes moments later beneath the freshly fallen darkness above them and the twinkling of the night's first stars emerge. Hermione released his hand only to latch onto his shoulder as they stood in the center of a narrow street, their boots planted firmly in freshly-fallen snow. Cottages lined both sides of the street, Christmas decorations hung from flower boxes and shining colored-lights illuminating the windows from the inside.

"It's beautiful," Hermione whispered, her warm breath grazing Harry's exposed neck. "And all the snow—Harry, it's absolutely beautiful." Harry agreed. They inched forward toward the center of the village where red and gold banners hung from the streetlamps, the icy air occasionally nipping their noses when a light breeze would flicker by. Harry observed each cottage they passed. Any one of them could belong to Bathilda, or perhaps, had been his parents. He examined the front doors, their snow-burdened roofs, their icicle-laden gutters, and wind-swept frosty porches, desperate for anything magical to reveal itself.

They followed the narrow road as it curved to the left, leading them closer to the heart of the village. The street intersected with a small square where, strung all around with large, colored bulbous-shaped lights appeared to be the resting place of a war memorial, largely obscured by a towering Christmas tree. From here, they could see a post office, a small handful of shops, a pub where a several people had gathered outside, all with tobacco pipes in hand, and finally, a tiny church with exquisite stained glass windows brightly lit, where the sound of a carol rang clearly in the quiet of night.

"Harry, I think it's Christmas Eve," said Hermione excitedly.

"Already?"

"It must be," she affirmed. "Yes, listen closely—you'll hear it." And sure enough, floating from the open doors of the church Harry heard the choir of voices. Harry didn't recognize the words, however.

"It's latin," she said almost immediately. But Harry's eyes had fallen on the graveyard hidden at the back of the church.

"Come on," she said, tightening her grip around his forearm and bicep. "I don't think we should keep them waiting any more, do you?" Harry gave her a puzzled look. Hermione gave him a sad smile before nodding to the churchyard. "They've waited long enough. And so have you."

Harry had thought of this moment for more years than he could recall. He had thought what he would say if he ever stood at the feet of his parent's graves. He was never good with words and suddenly an unexplainable fear gripped him. Perhaps Hermione knew what he was feeling, because she took his hand in hers and pulled him forward, leading the way across the square.

"Harry, look," she said, pointing at the war memorial. What had appeared a simple stone and granite obelisk, embossed with golden letters of names had transformed into the statue of three people: a man with round glasses and untidy hair, a woman with long hair and a intense, yet pretty face, and baby boy nestled safely in her arms. Snow lay undisturbed upon their heads.

Harry stared at the statue, looking up into the stone faces of his father and mother. Any words he might have said were lost as he gazed at the baby without a scar on his forehead. Hermione stood silently with him. They stood that way for several minutes before Harry became uncomfortable. Hermione was brilliant—she had sensed Harry was struggling with his feelings and so she pulled him away from the memorial and watched the statue revert back into the war memorial.

They reached a kissing gate at the entrance of the graveyard that Hermione quietly pushed open to allow their entry. A small narrow pathway had been shoveled out of the snow leading to the far end of the graveyard, but much of the snow had been left undisturbed between tombstones. All the while, Hermione continued to lead Harry, her hand never leaving his. He allowed himself to be mindlessly guided, his thoughts too stretched to think on his own. Row upon row of snow-covered tombstones protruded from the white blanket of winter. They passed several names, some of them familiar, most of them unknown. They did pause however, when they stumbled upon two names upon the same tombstone very familiar to them:

Kendra Dumbledore

1851-1899

Ariana Dumbledore

1885-1899

Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also

Harry remembered Elphias' tribute in the Daily Prophet. This then was where Professor Dumbledore's family had been laid to rest. As he looked over the tombstone, he felt further ashamed that he had never bothered to know more about Dumbledore. He thought of the common ground between them; both families tied to such a deeply magical rooted place. Yet, Dumbledore had never thought to share the connection. And though he imagined the sort of bond and understanding that might have formed had they visited together, he could not blame the headmaster for his lack of confiding in him. After all, the loss must have been devastating. Still, he couldn't help but feel emptiness for what could have been.

"Why didn't he ever say anything, Hermione," he asked her.

"I don't know, Harry," she said. "But I'm sure he had his reasons."

"Let's keep looking," he said. They walked down several more rows, looking for the Potter name. They continued to find surnames they recognized, surprised at times to find what appeared to be whole generations of the same Wizarding family. As they moved into the heart of the graveyard, Hermione pointed at an old weather-worn stone; it was decidedly taller than all the rest.

"I don't think my parent's grave is that old, Hermione," said Harry weakly.

"No, but look at this," she said, pointing at an engraved symbol in the stone. A triangular mark had been cut into the stone, and crudely by the looks of it.

"Harry, it's the symbol," she said. She quickly summoned the book of children's tales from her beaded hand bag and found the story of the three brothers. She held up the page where Dumbledore had drawn the symbol and compared it to the one on the grave. Worn as the old gravestone might be the similarities of the shapes were unmistakable. Hermione lit her hand and pointed to the name on the headstone. It was near illegible.

Ignotus Peverell

There were no dates below the name.

"Harry, this can't be a coincidence," she said.

"Hermione, we've seen this mark before," he said suddenly. "Luna's dad—at the wedding!"

"Oh Merlin, you're right," she said. She continued to examine the gravestone for a bit longer, but seeing nothing further, she said, "it's a start, but this isn't why we're here." Harry readily agreed. They returned to the shoveled path and walked down a few more rows when Hermione gave a small gasp and pointed to a tall white marble stone.

"They're right here, Harry…"

Harry nodded as he let Hermione guide him toward the final resting place of his parents. His feet lumbered forward like heavy weights and the path forward felt miles away. A suffocating vice pressed down on his chest as an all-to-familiar emotion surrounded him like thick fog; grief. When they reached the foot of the graves, the marble tombstone, pristinely white, reflected brightly beneath the moonlight and easily illuminating the engraved letters:

James Potter

March 27 1960-October 31 1981

Lily Potter

January 30 1960-October 31 1981

The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death

Harry read the words slowly, knowing he would never get to read them again after tonight. He suspected Dumbledore had chosen the words, though they caused him unease.

"Isn't that a Death Eater idea," asked Harry, finding words. He did his best to ignore the burning sensation welling in his eyes.

"It's from the Bible," said Hermione, gripping his hand tightly as she spoke softly and gently beside him. "It doesn't mean what you're thinking. It means living beyond death. Living after death."

But they were not living, thought Harry. And tears tumbled down his cheeks in a sheet of water, boiling hot to the frozen skin of his face. Comforting the words might have been to Dumbledore at the time, they were empty to Harry as he stood on the ground where beneath his feet, his parent's remains lay buried and forgotten, unknowing of the world above. He did not try to hide them from Hermione—he knew she wouldn't care. He watched through watery eyes as his tears dripped from his chin and landed on the snowy ground, imagining the place where his parents lay, wishing for the first time that he too was sleeping hidden beneath the snow beside them. Then he was angry; why had no one brought him here? Why had Dumbledore thought it unnecessary? Why hadn't Sirius or Remus mentioned his parent's final resting place, or offered to take him? His anger gave way to more grief; if there was such a thing as life after death, were they watching him? Did they know their son stood so near, alive with his heart beating because of their sacrifice? Did they know the trails of his life? Did they know what awaited him and could only watch helplessly from some untold place on high?

Hermione had remained silent, watching his tears fall and was soon crying with him. She held him closely, her left hand intertwined with his while with her right hand she had latched into the crevice between his arm and torso. She leaned her head on his shoulder. She didn't need words; Harry knew his untold grief was shared between them.

"I wish I could talk to them," he said after a while, his eyes tired and red.

"You can," she whispered next to his ear. "They're right here. Everything you've ever wanted to tell them, you can tell them right now."

"They can't hear me," he said desperately.

"They can," she encouraged. "They're always watching you; I believe that with all my heart."

"How do you know," he asked half-heartedly.

"Just trust me," she said. "Go on, say something. If you want to be alone, I can wait over by the gate."

"No," he found himself answering. "No, I—I want you to stay." Hermione squeezed his hand again and Harry returned the pressure. It was an odd feeling to be standing over the remains of his parents, trying desperately to find words to say to them. Each time he tried to speak, his mouth would hang open as he took sharp gulps of the cold winter air.

"Take your time," said Hermione, her right hand now running up and down the length of his arm.

"Hi, Mum, Dad," he said, the words tumbling from his lips. Harry looked down at his feet as though they had become the most fascinating objects in the graveyard. He swallowed hard, noting how narrow the passageway of his lungs had become. "This is Hermione Granger," he found himself saying with vague awareness, and yet the words felt natural. "She's my best friend. She says you've been watching me all this time. I don't know if that's true or not, but if you have, then you already know how amazing she is." He heard Hermione take in a sharp intake of air and felt her grab him tighter. "I wouldn't have made it this far without her…she made sure you didn't die for nothing..."

"Harry…"

"I know you would have adored her, Mum," he continued. "Sirius and Remus told me how brilliant you were; Hermione's just like you—she's the best in our year and Muggleborn too—and I don't know what I'd have done without her. She's good at everything: Transfiguration, Potions, Charms—she loves to read and remembers almost everything from her books—she's truly brilliant, Mum."

"Harry…you shouldn't—this isn't for me…they'd want to hear about you—"

"—and Dad, you'd love her too," he went on as though he hadn't heard Hermione's protest. His words flowed easily now because Harry had found what he wanted them to know. "She's incredibly brave and loyal. She's always been there—always the last one standing with me. And if you really are watching, you already know that. I wish you were still here so you could get to know her, talk with her, and laugh with her." He thought briefly of talking about Ron, but knew almost immediately he didn't want too. Even though his brain told him it was impossible for his parents to hear any of his words, his heart vibrated to the hope and truth of Hermione's words that his parents were watching. So, he settled the matter quickly and accepted that his parents knew his troubles just as much as his victories.

"I miss you terribly," he said, finally. "I wish I could remember flying on a broom in the living room, chasing ornaments with Dad. I wish I could remember Sirius visiting. I wish I could remember a lot of things, Mum, instead of the things I have to imagine. Hermione and I won't give up—we're going to beat Tom and he'll pay for all the terrible things he's done. Someday I'll see you again, and when I do, I'll tell you everything you want to know. And I'll tell Dad the things you don't want to know. Don't worry about me—Hermione worries plenty. She really is good at what she does and she's even better at watching out for me." As he finished he found a sense of peace. He was glad Hermione had come; even if his parents couldn't hear his words, he had said the words that lived in his heart. He had always kept his deepest desire inside, unspoken to anyone. Saying them aloud had made them real and now, as he stood at the feet of his parents' grave, his heart ached with the loss he had refused to acknowledge; the emptiness from knowing he had never consciously known the embrace of his parents, their soothing words, their discipline, or their love. Finally, as he looked down at the base of the white marble tombstone and then to the countless others, he realized he hadn't brought anything to leave behind.

"I'm sorry I don't have anything to leave you," he said at last, sheepishly and ashamed. However, Hermione raised her wand, moved it in a slow circle through the air and a beautiful wreath of Christmas roses blossomed in midair before them. She released her grip from Harry and took the wreath and laid it gently at the base of the tombstone. She examined it for almost a minute in complete silence before she flicked her wand a second time and singular white lily emerged from within the bundle of roses. Harry felt his eyes burn once more.

"I—I wish I could have known you too," she said. She spoke quietly, but in the silence of the graveyard, her voice sounded like a church choir; full of emotion. "Harry's always been too modest, so I'll tell you a little bit. When I first came to Hogwarts, I thought I'd never have a friend. Now I have the best friend anyone could ever ask for. He's stubborn. He gets into trouble often, though it's not always his fault. He's loyal, and brave, and he never takes the easy way out. He must have gotten that from you two."

Harry kneeled down beside her and placed an arm around her.

"He falls asleep in History of Magic. His handwriting isn't very good, but he's smarter than he'd have you believe. You'll be glad to know he's a brilliant Quidditch player. He's the youngest Seeker to play on a house team in over a century. And don't believe everything he's told you; he scored better than me on his Defense OWL. He hasn't had an easy time growing up, thanks to your sister. I'm sure you'd have the same words for her that I fully intend to enlighten her too the next time we meet."

"I promise that I won't abandon him. I'll protect him with everything I have. The world is constantly asking more of him, more than he should have to give. I'll admit I'm sometimes just as selfish; sometimes I want too much of him as well. But you already know that, don't you? I promise he won't be alone."

Harry pulled her closer, and she put her arms around his waist and sat kneeling in the snow, together, beneath the star-spattered sky, the silence of the night keeping their company.