Godric's Hollow

Harry

The sun is setting. I watch with an empty indifference as the coming night leeches the warmth from the air, the cold wind stirring the leaves in a death rattle around my mother and father's headstones. The lettering isn't as crisp as it must once have been, but it is not entirely indecipherable yet. I trace my father's name with my fingers, thinking of the man I never knew. Prongs. The letters of his nickname are spelled out at the very bottom of the tombstone, along with the inscription "The Fearless Marauder." I wonder if it was Lupin or Sirius who thought to put that there. Perhaps I'll never know, just like I never knew my father.

Thanks to Voldemort, once again.

I feel my fist clench, and I don't even have to look down to know that the scars spelling, I will not tell lies, are gleaming even whiter tonight against the impending dark. My fist clenches harder, and I feel the tears start welling in my eyes again; I bow my head, brace my forehead against my knees, and wait for the spell to pass, trying to gather strength from my father's grave, but I know that he is not here; he is with my mother, and they are waiting for the day when I will be with them again. "Dad," I mutter, turning over the crisp soil with my fingers. "Mum…"

Stars are starting to twinkle to life in the blackness of the sky above, and almost all of the golden glow has faded from the horizon, being steadily overcome by the night. Despite myself, I shiver slightly. For autumn, it's very cold; Dad's headstone is even colder behind my back. In the near distance, I see Hermione curled against a tree, wrapping her arms around herself to keep out the cold, and I know that she is worrying more than ever about me, and about Ron, and about all of us. It's hard to imagine, really, that it was a full six years ago, and she was the bushy-haired know-it-all who Ron and I saved from a troll blundering around in the dungeons. Somehow, that time seemed like a week ago, her petrification by Slytherin's monster a day later, the shrill tone in her voice as she exposed Lupin as a werewolf that night in the shrieking shack perhaps twenty-four hours following, the triumph on her face after the capture of Rita Skeeter a day after that, the fight at the Ministry perhaps another day later, the shock on her face after learning of the death of Dumbledore only today.

Ron is looking at her now, his face lined with concern for her. I have to smile slightly. Who would have ever thought that Ron Weasley, the boy who could play chess like a pro in first year, who drove his father's flying car into the Whomping Willow, who owned the rat Scabbers that turned out to be Peter Pettigrew, who could not help but hate me when I was unceremoniously shoved into the Triwizard Tournament, who fought at my side in the Department of Mysteries and was attacked by a brain, would have been snogging Lavender Brown in public by sixth year?

So many things have happened to us all, and I know that something else is about to happen when Ron rouses himself from his tree, sits down next to Hermione, and wraps his arms around her. I turn my head away, watching the now blank horizon, and whisper, "Sirius." I twirl the dirt and the leaves with restless fingers again, itching to get going and yet itching to stay put. Once we start out, I know that there is no turning back, as we should have realized first year, going after the Sorcerer's Stone. I wonder if we would have embarked on the journey, then, if we had known.

Well, we are all Gryffindors, after all. Maybe we would have.

I grip a small pile of leaves and let them fall again. "Dumbledore," I say, softly, stirring the leaves now with trembling fingers. I cannot get the final image of him out of my mind's eye, lying spread-eagled beneath the tower above which the Dark Mark gleamed; I cannot bear the thought that he died needlessly, that he weakened himself for a Horcrux that turned out to be quite fake. Had he known, before he died, that he had died for nothing?

I can't bear that thought. I press my forehead to my knees again and let the tears come, feeling my shoulders shake as they flow out, soaking my skin. The tombstone is hard and bitter behind me, and night has fully fallen, the wind rustling the trees and leaves threateningly. I don't want to look back, but it is just as miserable to look forward.

Just a few minutes later, I hear a pair of footsteps. I take off my glasses, wipe them on my cloak, and put them back on, getting to my feet to greet my two friends, both of whom were looking as grim and determined as they ever have, but Ron's arm is around Hermione's waist, and there is a new hope gleaming in both of their eyes. Even through all my pain, I smile at them, nod to Ron, and say, "About time, mate."

He grins, almost sheepishly, and Hermione blushes, but they both move forward at the same time and for a moment, we are all in one embrace, our circle of friendship tighter than it has ever been. After a moment, we all step back. Neither of them say a word. We're all waiting, I know, and just as it was in first year, it's my move first.

With a single motion, I take out my wand, glance one last time at my parents' graves, and brandish my wand toward the distant horizon. "Lumos," I whisper, and the small flare of light pushes back the dark as Ron, Hermione, and I embark on our hardest journey of all.