― CHAPTER TEN ―

Godric's Hollow

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Saturday dawned overcast and foggy, which suited Harry's plans well, adding a blanket of visibility protection for the scheduled flying trek over Bristol that would take him, Ron, and Moody to Godric's Hollow. Harry didn't know how he would feel upon setting foot in his birthplace (or, his parents' deathplace, depending on how one chose to think of it). For now, there was a knot of expectancy tightly wound in his stomach –he was going home, but home was somewhere he had no conscious memory of; a question mark.

Rolling out of bed and padding barefooted out of his room, Harry wondered how Hermione was getting on at their much-changed school. He personally couldn't envision himself back this year … to pass the gargoyle on the seventh-floor corridor knowing that the spiral stone staircase behind it would not lead up the beautiful, eccentric office Dumbledore had inhabited … dreading Double Potions with the Slytherins when there was no longer an overgrown-bat figure singling him out for testing poison antidotes, nor confrontations with a thug-flanked, hex-happy arch-rival to boost one's adrenaline … Hogwarts would be, well, boring without all that!

Today's Daily Prophet was waiting for him on the kitchen table, along with a mug of steamy black coffee. Since the night Harry had confiscated Kreacher's cache, inexplicably, the house-elf's hatred of his young master had ebbed, or perhaps his innate urge for servitude increased, because now, Kreacher brought in the morning paper and prepared Harry's coffee everyday without having been asked to do so. At first, Harry had laughed it off as an ill-conceived revenge ploy, but after confirming that the beverage was not toxic, he began to enjoy the convenience of this odd ministration. Waking to the aroma of a fresh brew was quite better than being awoken by the sound of Hedwig pecking at his bedroom window.

He scanned the front page headlines, as usual looking for any Voldemort-related news items. Not a word, today. But there had been some bad ones this past week: Ollivander, the renowned wandmaker who had mysteriously vanished last fall, was found dead –with the Dark Mark lingering skyhigh. Also a few Aurors-in-training were reported missing by the Ministry. Rufus Scrimgeour, the Minister for Magic, looking more like an aged lion than ever with his grey-streaked shock of hair as he gesticulated from a square frame above the article, had encouraged the wizarding community to adhere to the revised security guidelines, which covered the whole of the next page. Minister doubles defense squads in Department of Magical Law Enforcement, his picture caption read, and Harry was relieved that Scrimgeour was doing a better job of protecting his public than had his conservative predecessor, Cornelius Fudge, when coping with the anarchy of the Dark Order.

One fact the Prophet still censored, that Harry had learned of from Mr. Weasley, was that vampires had joined Voldemort's ranks over the summer. Their Ministry-quarantined lair had been found deserted, its guards Stunned, with the Death Eater's signature defacing the Regulation of Magical Creatures departmental seal. Macnair, he thought grimly, remembering Buckbeak's executioner who was both Death Eater and ex-Ministry expert on controlling 'dangerous beasts.' Macnair probably had recruited the vampires, and Harry didn't like to imagine the bloodthirsty brutality they could unleash on an unsuspecting community.

The sound of the doorbell clanging roused Mrs. Black's cursing shrieks. Silencio, thought Harry exasperatedly as he got up to start down the gloomy hallway toward the landing upstairs. To his wonder, the howls died down at once. Harry grinned to himself. Getting the hang of this non-verbal spell thing … He unbolted the heavy, paint-chipped front door and opened it to see the scarred face of Moody and the freckled face of Ron standing on the stone steps outside.

"When are you going to learn to CHECK PASSWORDS, Potter?"

"What's your favorite –" said Harry hastily, but Moody cut him off.

"Get your broom, we're on a schedule!"

Harry didn't need to be told twice. He grabbed his Firebolt (which he had serviced and polished last night) from the umbrella stand and slipped on a warm windbreaker since he knew from experience that high altitude flights could get freezingly uncomfortable. Closing and locking the door behind him, Harry stepped out into the cool grey morning air.

Immediately, he felt a wand smack him on the top of his head, and as a familiar egg-drip sensation trickled through his body, he saw Moody repeat the Disillusionment Charm on Ron, turning him chameleon-colored as well. "Awesome!" came Ron's voice, though Harry couldn't discern his friend's outline from the background of Muggle houses and garbage bins anymore.

"Get ready for kick off," said Moody gruffly, mounting his own broom. "My lead in triangle formation; stay close; fly hard bearing north. Problems, shoot red sparks. Are we crystal?"

"Yes, sir," said Harry, feeling excited. He hadn't flown for ages, and was grateful of this chance afforded them as other transport options were infeasible –Flooing because they weren't sure if Godric's Hollow had a working fireplace, and Apparation due to Harry and Ron's lack of familiarity with the intended 'destination'.

"Positions … GO!"

Kicking off hard from the ground, Harry let the exhilaration of ascent rush through his lungs, his hair, his hands gripping the broomstick handle. After all the magic he had seen and done throughout the years, one of the wondrous parts of being a wizard was still this … this soaring through clouds, weightless with speed, airborne and free … Making a sharp swerve to follow Moody's, Harry could make out nothing of the topography below –all was a whitish blur. A good hour into the flight, in spite of his fleece-lined extra layering, Harry's nose was running and his fingers were numb, and he was more than ready to see the Auror drop into the descent dive.

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They had reached a region of rural countryside. The fog was lifting; flying lower and rounding the edge of a steep embankment, Harry glimpsed his first breathtaking, bird's-eye view of his hometown stretched out below.

Deeply sloping grassy hills fell from all sides like the walls of an emerald-green basin, and flattened into a valley where the village of Godric's Hollow could be seen. Smoke was spiraling from the chimneys of clusters of thatched roofs and lopsided cottages, and a dirt road wound its way up through the long thrush upon which they touched down half a mile away.

Harry dismounted slowly, drinking in the sight that he realized another wizard's regard must have beheld with equal thirst sixteen autumns ago, for an entirely different reason. And, for Him, it would have been a nightscape. A black sky over the valley, a brother wand, a whispered Morsmordre . . .

"Potter, you alright?" Moody awkwardly thumped him on the back, jerking Harry back to the clean smell of daylight and innocent green hills. The raven-haired boy nodded, and the electric-blue eye turned to the other teenager, who was squinting in the direction of the unseen-held Firebolt.

"Afraid I can't remove the camouflage; too dangerous," said Moody as if anticipating such a request from his Disillusioned charges. He Accioed their broomsticks over and deposited them with his own by a large rock, casting a Concealment Charm and grumbling, "Elementary safekeeping rules oughta be reflex by now … damn imposter didn't teach a damn thing …"

They started down the road, Moody's solid form limping in fast strides, Harry and Ron discernable only as ripples in shifting air traipsing behind him. Harry couldn't help but notice how –well, charming –his rustic surroundings were, how very different from the drab suburban uniformity of Privet Drive … What would it have been like to be raised here, in a cosy cottage, seeing his parents' faces at the breakfast table every morning instead of dreaming of them in a friendless cupboard under the Dursleys' stairs? Perhaps not having to watch Cedric, Sirius, Dumbledore die because of his burden of the past? If it hadn't been for the absurd fixation of a power-crazed madman … not to mention that back-stabbing rat and a certain vindictive, adulterous spy … the Killing Curse was beginning to hum involuntarily in his head … don't let it become a vendetta –Harry stopped, appalled at himself. Hermione was right; he was echoing Voldemort's mindset, giving himself over to … wrath.

An angry voice erupted in Harry's head. Then you will find yourself easy prey for the Dark Lord! Snape, shouting at him in Occlumency lessons, incensed and unrelenting. Master yourself! Control your anger, discipline your mind! Harry squeezed his eyes shut; tried to let the pulsating fury seep out of his veins, to clear his mental soundtrack of that murderous two-word chant … breathe … his eyes popped open again: it wasn't as hard as it had always seemed, to still his thoughts, when he concentrated and consciously willed it. Like mentally directing the non-verbal spell in the morning, it was all about presence of mind.

"Harry … this is it," said Ron in a low voice on his right.

Harry found himself standing at the unhinged garden gate of a house –or rather, what was left of its two-storey skeleton. Isolated at the edge of the village lane, set apart from the other intact Muggle dwellings, it looked as forsaken as Hogsmeade's Shrieking Shack … sans the haunted creepiness. Though in a state of ruin –the stone façade charred; its windows, shattered; the rusty wrought-iron gate exposing a garden choked with an overgrowth of wildflower and scattered with blown leaves –to Harry, the remains of the Potter house had an air of sepulchral grace, like a monument on unvisited memorial grounds.

Without being aware of it his hand had pushed open the half-ajar gate and his feet were crunching on the unkempt gravel path that led to the door of the petite country house. He felt almost in a trance-like state, and when Moody called out something about waiting for him outside, keeping guard, Harry nodded vaguely and continued moving toward that magnetic door … Ron was beside him too, he seemed tuned into Harry's need for silence, whether out of respect for the dead, or for something else that Harry himself could not recognize. He just felt it brewing inside him, getting stronger as he fumbled with the stuck doorknob, stepping back, frustrated momentarily, then impatiently remembering, soundlessly, Alohomara, whereupon unused hinges creaked and yielded …

The interior was bare except for dust balls rolling on the wooden floor and cobwebs swaying in the draft let in by gaping windowpanes. If Harry found it odd that his parents' furniture had been removed so that not a vestige of their belongings was left as testimony to what took place on their last night alive –perhaps, signs of struggle, or traces of unfinished activities interrupted by the arrival of an unexpected visitor –then the wide-eyed boy wasn't sparing much thought on the matter. His scar was doing a slow burn, the foreign nameless feeling had intensified to the point it was blocking out his senses, and Harry did not need clues or hints; because he felt suddenly taller, it was nightfall, and he was breathing in quick, excited rasps …

"Uh, Harry … where are you?" Ron sounded alarmed.

Harry hissed his reply in Parceltongue; he heard Ron take a step back with a whimper as if singed by the dark emotion that Harry felt channeling from his scar through his tall, thin, alien body. Whatever he had experienced with Dementors was nowhere near as vivid as what was happening now: Harry could see his own tapered hand pointing an ebony wand at a man who was yelling, "It's him! Go! Run!" The man drew out his wand with a blazing desperation behind glasses in his hazel eyes, but Harry was faster. Joy surfaced in a high-pitched scream of laughter even as part of him screamed helplessly in horror, watching James Potter's lifeless form fall back … and Harry was flying up a narrow staircase, scenting his victory … there she was, barring his way to it –it was not imperative she die, she was too weak to stop him, and very beautiful … he could spare her worthless life –"Stand aside, you silly girl …"

Lily Potter's eyes were huge brilliant orbs in her blood-drained face as her body shielded a crib behind her. "Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead –"

The insolence of Mudbloods! Harry seethed, advancing on her. She crumpled to her knees, sobbing, begging. "Please … have mercy …" Harry laughed coldly, and the other Harry wept while his mother screamed and the baby wailed, and the green light slashed the darkness of the room, and she was prostrate before him, auburn hair fanning the ground …

Harry gazed at the baby boy, and the baby boy gazed back at him, and Harry felt his skin crawl. Vanquish the Dark Lord, indeed! His wand-free hand sought the trophy hidden in the folds of his robes; as his finger brushed its indented engraving, euphoria thrilled through him … The death of this child, this foretold enemy, will be Lord Voldemort's triumph over Fate itself; thus this kill is worthy for creation …Harry raised the wand once more ... something flickered and flashed as his lips formed the spell, and then –

"IMPEDIMENTA!"

The trance ended. Shaking convulsively, Harry collapsed.

Sight and sound slammed him as though he'd emerged from a blind-and-deaf vacuum. His body was still being racked with spasms, but he dimly registered that it was back to its normal visible color. Ron, also Re-Illusioned, was kneeling over him, shouting his name, slapping him. Behind Ron stood Moody in duel position, wand drawn –and aimed at Harry.

Harry, trying to control his tremors, mumbled weakly, "Watch where you're pointing that thing …"

"Sorry, kid," said Moody, peering at him with his undamaged eye. He stuffed his wand back into his pocket. "You seemed real addled for a moment there."

Harry rubbed the sore spot where the back of his skull had connected with the floor. "Yeah, I was hallucinating." His mind was oddly fuzzy; he wondered if he had a concussion? He couldn't recall what the hallucination had been about. Noticing the other wizards' pained expressions –treading on eggshells, treating me like fragile glass, again –he winced irritably. "What?"

"You almost used an Unforgivable on me," said Ron quietly. "If Moody hadn't arrived in time to stop you …"

Harry stared at him blankly, not comprehending. Me, curse Ron? Then everything came back in a rush: he had been Voldemort, he had seen his parents … their faces as they fought, as they fell … by his hand. I felt what he felt, inhuman joy and exultant mercilessness … Oh God, I laughed his laughter as they died … Harry rolled over and was sick all over the dusty floor.

Ron rubbed his back soothingly, muttering 'Evanesco' at the mess.

Almost … killed … Ron … He retched again as the meaning hit home. "I'm sorry," he whispered, shutting his eyes against the nausea. "I didn't –I couldn't –"

"Don't be thick," said Ron in a tight voice. "I mean, I've no idea what was going on, but, I know you wouldn't ever, well …"

Hurt people, that it to say, but for my predisposition for possession by the most evil wizard in existence. Harry could hear the unspoken question hanging in Ron's trailed off words.

"D'you wanna talk about it?" Moody's tone was less rough than habit.

For a moment Harry considered saying no; he was tired of explaining, tired of feeling like an exhibition at a freak show. Yet Ron deserved to know, Moody was a professional, and they were both looking at him not with pity but with deep empathy. He returned their gazes listlessly.

"I relived the night of my parents' murders."

"How is that possible?" Ron said quickly. "You were only a year old! It must have been your subconscious playing tricks on you like with the Dem –"

"From –from inside Voldemort."

Ron choked out an incredulous four-letter swear word. Moody rolled his magical eye to the ceiling and Harry though he heard him utter a prayer.

"But Harry –" began Ron at last, after a long, reluctant silence.

"I know, Ron, I'm asking myself the same question," said Harry, getting to his feet. They were in a small second-floor room, empty like the rest of the house downstairs, though Harry had seen a crib in the corner … He walked to the window, leaning his forehead on the paneless frame, and speaking to the misty emerald hills outside. "What is Voldemort's memory doing in my head?"