Chapter 3: The Forgotten Grave

Harry Potter groaned as a he felt something sharp dig into the small of his back. He dimly remembered collapsing under a tree, but then it had been dark. Now he felt sunlight dancing across his face and a cool breeze. As he came to, he became aware of his body, and how bad it felt. It was as though he was just getting over a serious case of flu. His joints felt stiff, and his head throbbed dully. The only thing that seemed out of place was that his face, unlike the rest of his burning body, felt cool. With a certain amount of trepidation Harry opened his eyes. It took a moment for them to get a grip of themselves and start to bring the world into focus.

There was something odd about the scene that met him; around him he saw a forest, illuminated by bright early morning sun, but in front of him was the face of an old man, apprehension weaving his brow into a series of ridges. Harry opened his mouth, trying to form words in his parched throat, but only a disjointed mumbling passed his lips.

The man gently rearranged the damp rag which, Harry had realised, was the cause of the blissful coolness his forehead felt. Then the man spoke:

"Si e ke emrin?"

These words, though completely incomprehensible, seemed to act like a key to the locked door of Harry's brain. The door, suddenly opened, released a rush of memories from the last few hours.

Albania….Bertha Jorkins….the valley…..the cavern…..the snake!

As a kaleidoscope, these images danced in front of Harry.

"What is…your name?"

It took a moment for Harry to jump out of these visions and back to the present. The old man, in stuttering English, had asked him a question. With a hand on his throat Harry again tried to speak

"Potter….Harry Potter", he croaked.

***

After a couple of moments staring at Harry, the strange old man had taken the rag and disappeared. Harry was left, lying in a patch of crocuses, staring up at a blue sky seen through swaying green leaves and branches. Now that he was a bit more engaged with the world around him, Harry realised he needed to get back to civilization and get in contact with the Ministry of Magic in England. He knew it was vitally important he informed the appropriate people as to what had happened in Aquastilla.

Harry gingerly eased himself up. As he did so his hand brushed against his glasses lying on the ground. Putting them on, he looked around at the peaceful forest.

Where had that man disappeared to?

Anxiously, Harry stood up and peered about.

Surely he was just a muggle – he would never have recognised Harry's name - surely?

Swaying as he stood, still unsteady on his feet, Harry reeled round as a rustling started behind him. Realising what was happening Harry hurried forward and held out his hand for the man to grab. He was puffing and wheezing as Harry pulled him over the top of the bank he had been climbing up. Harry looked down, and saw a stream several feet below. Turning back, Harry found the man proffering the rag; once again it was damp from the stream he had soaked it in.

Harry had noticed the missing piece of material in his cloak, but took the rag from the man gratefully. Pressing it to his face, he absorbed its cooling waters. Slowly the coolness started to reach the rest of his body. Harry felt his breathing, harsh and deep until now, slow down.

Standing a few feet away, the man was looking at Harry with a look of great concern.

"I'm ok", said Harry, sticking his thumb up to convey his meaning.

The man nodded slowly, and then beckoned Harry with his hand. Still pressing the rag to his head, Harry followed the man,

"How far is the village?" Harry asked the man.

"Short walk, a half hour maybe", the man replied, not looking back.

They started along the track, walking beside the stream that Harry had followed the previous evening. The action of walking seemed to be having a beneficial effect on Harry's beaten body. As they clambered down slopes, stepping over rocks and up-thrust tree roots, Harry's joints started to move with greater ease. His head was also feeling much clearer and he started to breathe in deeply, enjoying the fresh morning air. Inside he was desperately trying not to look at the visions of the last evening that kept flashing in front of him.

Harry couldn't understand why he felt this way. He had thrown Voldemort down and this time it felt final. He had successfully rid the world of a great threat, and had managed to avoid the death that so many had predicted. Then his heart skipped a beat. He had suddenly thought of those people back home, his friends who he had abandoned with hardly a word, to track down Voldemort.

He screwed up his fists as he thought of his best friend Ron Weasley. He had had his magical powers burnt out when he threw himself in front of his sister Ginny and best friend Hermione Granger. Against all advice, they had foolishly come to the confrontation with Voldemort, who had tried to remove them first. His face contorted with rage as he thought of poor Neville Longbottom, lying on a bed in St Mungo's next to his parents. He had been driven to madness by the cruciatus curse, administered by Voldemort in a secret attack before the main strike on Hogwarts had taken place. His insides turned as he thought of the students who had been killed as Voldemort, screaming in agony under Harry's curses, brought the North Tower of Hogwarts, including the grand staircase, crumbling down.

He had left two weeks after they had finished Hogwarts, amidst the joyful celebrations that witches and wizards all across the country had still been participating in. All of it was to mark Harry's triumph over Voldemort at Hogwarts but he knew they were premature. He had left because he knew there was still some essence of Voldemort out there. He had left to track down that essence and destroy it before it could inflict any more pain and suffering on Harry's world.

Harry was brought out of his dark thoughts by the old man who had stopped just ahead of him. They had reached the village. The sun had now risen above the eastern peaks and was casting its glorious ray's upon the houses surrounding the green. It was still early, and the village seemed an oasis of tranquillity and peace. Harry felt an overwhelming desire for sleep come over him.

The man led him across the village green, and over to the inn. It was easily the largest building in the area; a three storied main building gave on to slightly lower wings on either side. The roof was tiled in varying hues of ochre red, and large gabled windows stood out along both sides. Above the front door there hung a sign, creaking in the slight wind. It had a painting of a rather plump woman standing over a drunken man lying curled up on the floor. Harry had seen the inn the previous evening, its door thrown open to the street, muted laughter coming from within. Now though, as Harry and the man stood in front of it, the inn appeared silent and closed.

Harry guessed it was still only around six-thirty in the morning, but despite this, the man took his stick and rapped it smartly on the inn door. They stood waiting patiently, and it was half a minute or more before the door was finally opened.

Standing in the opening was a short woman, her brown hair caught up in a pink hairnet, still tying the cord of a dressing gown that had obviously been hastily thrown on moments ago.

She looked from the old man, to Harry, and then back to the man who launched into a frenzied talk. The conversation stretched on, with wild gestures from both sides. Harry got the impression that he wasn't in the least bit welcome at the inn, but it seemed the old man was arguing for him with great vigour. Finally with a resigned huff, the old woman stood aside to let Harry step inside. Harry looked back, and tried to express his gratitude to the man. It didn't seem to have the right effect, as the man looked at him with increased concern, but the woman cut short his objections by finally shutting the door on him.

Harry found himself in the darkened common room of the inn. Small tables stood around with stools neatly piled on top. A shutter was down in front of the bar, and the remains of a fire were visible in the grate.

The woman prodded him in the back, indicating a narrow staircase to the left of the bar. He climbed up and the woman showed him a door on the left at the end of the passage. Harry opened it to find a small bedroom, complete with a single bed, washstand and chipped sink. Turning to the woman to say thank you, he found she had gone, footsteps echoing back along the passage.

Harry shut the door, and without even removing his cloak threw himself on to the bed where he succumbed almost immediately to a deep and peaceful sleep.

***

Several hours later Harry woke up. The sun, once again sinking towards the western horizon, was shining through the small window set into the wall to the left of the door. It was casting long beams across his pillow, and evidently was the reason for his rather abrupt awakening.

He sat up and rubbed his knuckles into his sleep-shut eyes. He breathed in deeply, and sat reflecting on his undisturbed rest.

No nightmares

Harry's sleep had been disturbed by terrible nightmares since the day he had thrown down Voldemort at Hogwarts. Despite the fact that he had almost perfectly mastered occlumency these visions were still getting through. He had decided they were probably ordinary 'muggle' nightmares, but even so they were still unpleasant. However, his sleep in the little room that day had been completely and utterly undisturbed. Harry hoped it was because of what he had accomplished last night, rather than simply because he had been exhausted.

The sun outside indicated that Harry had slept the majority of the day away. He had lost his watch, but knew that he would have to get a move on if he was to get something to eat. Looking out of the small window, he saw the ruins of the village church silhouetted against the sinking sun, and behind it, not more than a couple of miles away, the mountains once again rising up out of the plain.

He shrugged off the cloak and went to the washstand. After running the water for a couple of minutes, until it was piping hot, he put the plug in and allowed the sink to fill up. He then took off his t-shirt lowered his face to the sink and plunged it into the steaming liquid. The effect was instantly gratifying, as it felt like an ages worth of dust and grime was scoured from his face by the water.

A flannel cloth stood on a rack near the sink. He soaked it in the water then started vigorously scrubbing his face, hands, arms and bare chest. Catching a glance of himself in the mirror he saw that his skin was marked with scratches and bruises – evidently souvenirs of his decent from the valley down that track in the deep black of night.

Each time he returned the cloth to the water the muddied colour of it deepened. Finally, he changed the water for some clean, gave himself a final scrub with the cloth and then reached for one of the towels. Feeling much better he put his t-shirt back on and turned back to the mirror.

I'm back he thought as he examined his reflection. His skin looked pink and glowing and his eyes no longer seemed weighted down by tiredness and anxiety. Even so he still looked thin and gaunt.

Nothing a good square meal can't mend.

Folding up his cloak and tucking it under his arm he took a final look around the room, opened the door and set off in search of some food

***

Harry descended the narrow stairs to find the common room packed with people. There was much merriment, and this time, unlike last night, the laughter seemed natural and without inhibitions. At a few tables people were eating what looked to be a delicious meat stew. Harry picked his way through the throng to the bar, where the landlady he had met earlier on, was serving the excited customers.

When she had finished serving the gentleman next to Harry she came up to him with a quizzical look on her face. Harry simply pointed over to where someone was sitting with a plate of stew in front of them and put up a single finger. He hoped his smile would do the rest. To his relief the lady gave a curt nod and disappeared into the back of the bar.

A moment later she returned with a plate full of steaming hot stew. She also poured Harry a tankard of ale, and set this down with a piece of paper on which she had scribbled a number. Harry set his cloak on the bar so he could get at his pockets and searched for his bag of Albanian coins. Bringing it out, he counted out the appropriate change, and paid the lady. He hoped that the price included the accommodation as he only had a few coins left now.

Carrying the plate and tankard, Harry went and sat over at an unoccupied corner table where he quickly began to eat.

The food was delicious and hot, and it took Harry no time at all to polish the lot off. He had settled down with his ale, sitting back to watch the common room activities, when he heard a female voice behind him.

"Mr Potter?"

"Err, yes", Harry replied, turning around to face a young woman, dark hair falling around her shoulders.

"I am very please to meet you. My name is Zabela Murati, I am the daughter of Endri", she said, indicating the old man who had found Harry in the woods that morning. He was sitting on the far side of the common room, deep in discussion with a silver haired gentleman.

"Oh", said Harry, "Hello, pleased to meet you. You speak English very well".

The woman smiled, her voice was rich and deep, with only the faintest trace of an eastern-European accent, "Thank you, I teach it at a school in Korce".

"Korce?"

"It is a large town, not far from here."

"Ah", said Harry, glancing over at the old man. "Could you please pass on my sincerest thanks to your father? I am very grateful to him for finding me this morning. I don't think my feeble hand gestures really conveyed my meaning earlier on"

Zabela laughed, "No, he thought you were becoming ill again!"

"Oh well", Harry grinned sheepishly.

"Well, as you can see, your coming to the village has certainly done it some good. I haven't seen a crowd like this for two, three months now. I think everyone is wondering - what exactly was it that took you up that way last night?"

Harry sighed. He had been desperately trying to come up with a convincing cover story since he had come into the inn. Unfortunately he had utterly failed.

"I'm an ornithologist; I had heard that a particularly rare breed of…swallow had been seen above this village. So I went looking for it. I had climbed that beech your father found me lying under; it seemed a good vantage point. I guess I must have fallen asleep and fallen out"

Harry swallowed hard, he had tried to maintain eye contact with Zabela, but it had been impossible.

"But…" she started.

However Harry cut her off, "Look", he said, looking her straight in the eye, his green eyes steady and unblinking, "Everything is going to be alright, I promise".

For a moment it seemed as though she was going to ask something more, but after an awkward pause, during which she seemed to be searching for the right words, she slowly nodded her head, "Ok".

Harry knew this wasn't really enough, but he couldn't think of a way to explain to this muggle what had transpired last night. Harry cast around for something to turn the conversation to when he remembered what he had seen the previous evening.

That strange gravestone

It had been half buried under a growth of ivy, stuck in the very corner of the small cemetery. Whilst the rest of the graves had been well tended, this one looked like it had been abandoned for many years.

"Could you come and translate something for me?"

"Of course, where is it?"

"It is a grave, in the cemetery".

Zabela hesitated, if only for a second, before nodding, "Sure, I'll see what I can do".

Harry went and put his tankard down on the bar, then headed for the door. He paused on the threshold as Zabela exchanged a few words with her father. Then she joined him and the two left the inn, walked around the corner, down the short street and into the cemetery.

As it had been last night, the cemetery stood silent in the late evening sun. They picked their way carefully through the rows of headstones, arranged in the earth like crooked teeth. On all the graves there grew beautiful flowers in bright reds, yellows, purples and greens. The cemetery was well tended, with the grass short, and the headstones, polished grey-white marble, clean and glowing in the golden sunset.

It was strange to see the church lying beyond the far cemetery wall. In complete contrast to the cemetery, it was ruined, and looked like it had been left well alone. Ivy straddled what remained of the walls and the grass grew long amongst the toppled stones.

"What happened to the church?" Harry enquired, as they walked between the stones.

"Oh, you don't know anything about Albanian history?"

"Actually, no, I'm afraid I don't".

He heard a 'tut' behind him, "Don't they teach you anything in school?"

Harry was about to reply, and then thought better of it. He seemed to vaguely remember Professor Binns, the History of Magic teacher at Hogwarts, telling them about some Goblin rebellion or other that had started in Albania, but he didn't think that was what Zabela meant.

"Well, Albania came under the rule of a communist dictator called Enver Hoxha shortly after the war. He declared an atheist state and ordered that all religious buildings be destroyed. My father was here when they came; they hanged the priest and then burnt the church. Nobody has dared step near it since. We were allowed to keep using the cemetery, but only state approved burial ceremonies were used."

Harry had reached the first grave he wanted to show Zabela. He stopped in front of it, letting her take a look at it.

"This is it - what does the inscription say?"

Zabela frowned at the writing for a moment, then turned to Harry,

"Bertha Jorkins

Died on the seventeenth of July 1994

Though she died alone, she rests now with us all"

Harry stood there in silence. After a moment Zabela spoke again, this time very quietly

"Did you know her?"

"Oh", said Harry, he hadn't thought that his interest would raise questions, "I was just looking around last night – I was curious as to what an Englishwoman was doing buried in an Albanian grave yard".

Harry didn't want to mention the fact that he had spent the past few weeks searching dozens of cemeteries in this region looking for the name Bertha Jorkins.

"We found her, she was dead. Lying on the ground, near where my father found you this morning".

Harry's eyes widened as he took in the implications of this. This was why the man had looked at him with so much concern; he had thought there had been another murder. Gathering himself he tried to sound calm,

"She had gone up that track alone?"

"No-one really knows what happened that night. She was talking with someone in the inn, a small…I am not sure what the word is...like a rat? A man anyway, but the next moment he had vanished and she was leaving the inn. Not a word to anyone."

"Pettigrew", Harry whispered under his breath.

The murderous fool.

"Sorry?"

"Nothing, I was just thinking of something, but never mind, it's nothing".

They stood for a moment in respectful silence, Harry's head bowed to the grave of a witch who he had never met, and who had unwittingly almost got him killed three years ago. Harry wasn't sure what to feel, but a glance told him that Zabela was studying his face closely, tears pricking her eyes.

With a cough, Harry cleared his throat and again set off through the cemetery. This time he was headed for the far corner. This was the closest point to the ruined church and was hidden in deep shadows as the sun had sunk. He made his way through a tangle of brambles and paused in front of another head stone.

Looking around for Zabela, he saw she had stopped and was watching him. Her face looked pale, but her eyes seemed to flash with anger. Harry beckoned her over.

"Look, I found this last night. It doesn't look like anyone has touched it in years. What do these words…?"

But he was cut short. Zabela, after making her way through the bramble patch, shot him a pale glance before turning to look at the grave Harry had uncovered

"Why did you have to come to this place? I will never utter those words, here or anywhere! Here", she said as she took a scrap of paper and a pen out of bag, "Since you asked for help I will write them down, but then you must leave".

She furiously scribbled a few short lines on the paper.

"Here, take it", she spat, thrusting the paper into Harry's hand, "and then leave and don't ever come back!"

With that she turned on her heels and walked out of the cemetery without a backward look.

Harry stood staring after her for quite a few minutes, a slightly bemused expression on his face, as he put his heavy travelling cloak back on. Then slowly he looked down, unfolding the crumpled piece of paper she had shoved into his hand. He looked at it, and froze. Hastily he shoved it down into a pocket inside his cloak, at the same time pulling out his wand.

For a moment Harry hesitated, unsure of where he wanted to go. He watched as the figure of Zabela turned the corner next to the inn and made his mind up. Holding his wand above him he thought of being back in England, in London. With a crack, the cloaked man vanished into the calm evening, never to be seen or heard of in that village again.