Hallowed
Chapter Seven: A Tale of Two People
For the next week or so, Hermione had waited in the new location; stocking up on resources and provisions while she had the opportunity. Harry spent it barely sleeping and keeping watch when Hermione was out. He knew she was still hoping Ron would come back, but it seemed that there was no chance of that. It was nearing the end of December now, and they still had found nothing. In her spare time however, Hermione had been reading over the book Dumbledore had left her. Familiar with most of the stories in it now, she was stuck on the Tale of the Three Brothers. There was a page that she kept examining, and every time she was asked about it, she would shake her head in frustration.
"I just don't know what it means…" She finally offered on the 18th of December. "I've seen this mark before, but it isn't a rune; I've checked the Spellman's Syllabary at least ten times. It's just not there…" Finally getting a look, Harry recognized the mark.
"Hermione!" She looked up at him in alarm. "That's the same marking Luna's dad, Xenophilius wore to Bill and Fleur's wedding." Harry could remember it well; it had been rather hard to not notice, and Krum… "Remember, Viktor said that was the mark of Gallert Grindelwald."
"That's right…" Hermione clapped her hand to her forehead. "He said that Grindelwald had apparently put that symbol on a wall at Durmstrang…"
"But how does it tie into all of this…" Harry muttered as he took a few eggs and cracked them before cooking them on the camp stove that was in the tent. "Why is that mark there…"
"Dumbledore didn't leave any notes as to why… There's just that mark." Hermione said as she worked with the toast. They were simply eating egg sandwiches that night due to the lack of anything else to really cook. They had managed to get eggs, toast, milk, tea, and sugar from a local market before it had closed this evening. "Harry, I've actually been thinking about something as well…" She pulled the now brown toast from the fire and placed the stack of four pieces on a plate before passing it to Harry. "I've been thinking it might be a good idea to go to Godric's Hollow after all."
"What made you change your mind?" Harry asked; he pulled two pieces of toast off the stack and separated them. When the egg was fried fully, he used a spatula to place it on one slice of toast before handing the plate to Hermione again. "Something in that book?"
"Thanks, and no." she replied as she traded him a full teacup for the sandwich. "I think it could be a good starting point to look for the sword."
"You think it could be there?"
"Well, seeing as it's the birthplace of Gryffindor himself, it might be a good place to start looking. I mean… It makes sense in a way."
"Yeah, it does." Harry had to agree. Where else should they start looking? "Hermione, there's also Bathilda Bagshot as well. She may know something."
"It's possible." Hermione agreed while eating a corner of her sandwich. "It's the best lead we've got."
So, for the next week, Harry and Hermione moved further north and kept an eye on the snatcher activity. There were fewer of them, but the ones they found were traveling in packs and seemed to be more alert. At one time, Harry could have sworn one knew they were there; he walked within a foot of where Hermione was standing, and paused. Later, Hermione cursed herself for wearing perfume that day. It had been trace amounts from the clothes she had worn when they fled Grimmauld Place. From that point on, they moved in the dead of night; arriving on the outskirts of Godric's Hollow on December 24th.
Hermione insisted on pitching the tent and unpacking herself, but Harry went and withdrew most of the necessities from the bag and began assisting. Godric's Hollow would be there after they finished setting up camp. He began casting the protective charms around them, and only when that was completed did he don the cloak and leave their campsite. It was a bitter winter's night, and there was no shortage of snow and ice on the ground. He made it down a small hillside and entered the village before realizing just how late it was. The clock in the square read 11:47, and there were people filing into the little church not far away from it. Looking past he church, he saw the small graveyard and his heart sank. This had to be where they were.
Harry walked through thickening snow as he made his way through the village. Houses were alight with candles, angels, and the like as he passed. Shadows lingered in curtain-drawn windows for a moment before disappearing into darkness as flames were extinguished. When he reached a narrow lane, he stopped; there were only a few houses here, and one seemed to be in a severe state of ruin. It was the one at the end of this narrow street, and as Harry approached it, he realized why it was in the state it had been. The front gate hung open as if waiting for someone to enter, and its postbox held various messages magically written on it. They were dedicated to two people and their baby son; to Lily and James Potter and himself. They were well-wishes, words of strength, and vows to never forget. He recognized some handwriting and noted that some had faded over time, but all of the messages made him feel uneasy.
Pushing open the gate, Harry walked along the overgrown and frozen garden path; the footprints of the one who had murdered his parents long hidden by vines and snow. He could feel the knot forming in his throat as he reached the front stoop and touched the door. Immediately, he heard a man's voice echoing: "Lily! He's here! Take Harry and run! Take him and run!" He pushed open the front door and shrank back as it banged against the wall; falling off of its hinges. A flash of green light and the shadow of a man crumpled on the floor were what greeted him, but as Harry gripped the doorframe to steady himself, he realized that it was only an echo of what had happened seventeen years ago. Advancing further in, he saw the living room that he had spent his first Christmas in. It was in nowhere near good condition now, but Harry could recognize the structure as the room he had flown around with Sirius' toy broom.
Once the ground floor was looked over, Harry took the stairs carefully. They were still structurally sound, though they shouldn't have been. He saw his parents' room with a bed that had fallen in over the years and a once handsome furniture set and bathroom. He looked through it carefully and found a few things that were still intact: his father's travel knife, a handmade deep emerald blanket with gold trim, and a bottle of what he assumed was his mother's perfume. Pocketing the former and latter of the objects, Harry held the blanket and attempted to remember it. Nothing came to mind right away, and Harry finally left the room with the blanket draped over his arm. He turned to the left and headed down the hallway toward the last bedroom. This was the coldest room in the house, and it wasn't just because of the gaping hole in the corner of the wall.
The door was open, and there were remnants of wallpaper hanging off of the walls as Harry entered the smaller bedroom. The lump that had formed in his throat from the moment he had entered the garden was at its largest state now. He stood just past the doorway and looked down at the crib that was blasted apart on one side. As he reached out to take hold of the changing table for support on the unstable floor, it happened again: "Harry, Mama loves you… Dada loves you…" The whispers of his mother filled his ears. "You're so loved…" He gripped the table's edge in an attempt to keep himself in the present, but it was failing miserably. "Harry, be safe…"
"The boy…" The high and snake-like voice of Voldemort clashed with the gentle one that was Lily Potter's. "I seek the boy."
"Kill me!" He could see the shadow of Lily standing in front of the remains of the crib. "Take me instead!"
"Stand aside, girl!"
"Take me! Leave Harry, leave my son-"
"Stand aside, you fool!"
"No!"
"As you wish…" Another jet of green light, and the form of his mother fell away; dissolving into the floor before the crib. Harry felt his own knees give way, and his arm was forced to bend as they hit the floor.
"Harry… " He held on to the traces of his mother's voice, eyes searching the room, but he found nothing. "Harry… Harry." He noted that the voice had changed from Lily's to another's; the accent was distinctly from the highlands, He felt a rush of warmth near him and a hand on his shoulder. It was a foundation for him to build on; to pull himself back into the present. When he opened his eyes again, he saw the broken down crib and he could feel the corner of a soft blanket gripped tightly in his free hand. Fully expecting to turn and see Hermione there beside him with a concerned look on her face, he kept looking forward as he spoke quietly.
"This makes it real…" His voice shook as he said it. Harry had always known what happened here, even if he didn't fully understand it at the time. There had been some part of his mind that had kept him from fully believing that someone he didn't remember had given everything for him; seeing the hole in the wall, the crib in shambles, and hearing his mother's last moments had shaken him more than it ever had before. "She died here… and I was in there."
"Places like this are the most difficult to see." Harry turned his head quickly; He had expected to see and hear Hermione just over his shoulder; her brown eyes on him in concern. Instead, he saw the thin face of his former head of house; her green eyes focused on the point where Lily had been when giving her life for her baby son. Green robes and traveling cloak hanging off of her thinner frame, Minerva McGonagall looked older than Harry had ever seen her. "You witnessed her death just now, I believe."
"I did…" He still felt the bitter cold wrapping itself around him like a vice as he blinked a few times. "Never in that detail, though…" Returning his gaze to the crib for a second, Harry steadied his breathing. "Honestly, you're the last person I expected. What are you doing here?"
"I needed a reason to leave the castle." It was a simple statement with a deeper meaning. Harry didn't question it at first, but the thought still lingered in his mind as she continued. "I expected you to be here at some point. It was merely chance that my visit here was timely."
"You came here to find me?" Harry asked as he shifted positions and g rose from the floor; shaking off ice and snow as he went.
"I know why you're here." She rose from the floor as well, and after taking a good look at him, she motioned for him to follow. "You are searching for the sword."
"How…"
"Keep in mind that Phineas Nigellus Black can hear every word you say when he leaves his portrait at Hogwarts." McGonagall said quietly as she used her wand to light a path back down the stairs. "I heard him mention something to the headmaster that I find rather disturbing."
"Such as?" Harry had tapped the blanket on his arm with his wand, and it had righted itself; folding into a long rectangle and hanging evenly over his wrist and forearm.
"That object around your neck." The professor said simply. She didn't have to look back to know Harry was half stunned that she knew. "When I touched your shoulder, I felt it. Nothing leaves a person as cold or gives off such a powerful aura."
"Didn't think you believed in that sort of thing." Harry remembered McGonagall's views of Divination and Sybil Trelawney very well. She had been opposed to the subject, to say the least. "Auras and all that."
"Reading an aura to determine one's fate or future, no; complete and utter rubbish. Unfortunately, a dark object like that will feel strange to those that are good of heart. I assume it is why you were so invested in what happened here seventeen years ago; you bear a part of the killer's soul."
"And you knew I'd come here how?" Harry asked as he followed her out the front door and through the gate. "Didn't hear Phineas going on about that with Snape, did you?"
"I heard Severus suggest it to Phineas, actually." McGonagall had paused to look back at the ruined cottage. Her expression was a slightly haunted one. At Harry's questioning look, she explained. "I was in Godric's Hollow the morning before this happened." She admitted. "I was meant to be here that night; before Sirius Black mentioned that Mr. Pettigrew was taking watch."
"I thought Pettigrew was their only secret keeper."
"He was." Motioning for Harry to replace the hood on his traveling cloak to obscure his face from sight, she continued. "We knew where they were, and at least one of the members of the Order would remain in the village itself."
"And Pettigrew volunteered that night?" Harry hated the question because the answer was obvious; had it been anyone else, his parents might have stood a chance. The two had already started along the narrow road toward the square before she answered.
"Well, that was not what led to their deaths that night; I trust by now that you know this. Peter Pettigrew betrayed them long before he chose to stand guard in Godric's Hollow that night."
"If someone else had been there, they could have run... Could have been informed beforehand." Harry reasoned. "They still could have had a fighting chance if someone more trustworthy had been there." Knowing that it wouldn't have made much of a difference didn't help matters; it only made him angrier at the thought. "But you're right... They were living on borrowed time... I was living on borrowed time."
"It comes with the territory of being involved in a resistance movement." McGonagall said quietly as they made it back to the square and Harry turned toward the graveyard. "We are all living on borrowed time until this war ends."
"Did you find your mother dead?" Harry posed the question, but wasn't sure if it was a very good idea. This had been a lingering curiosity since Moody had made sure they were speaking to the actual professor. "Sorry," He added quickly. "It was something I've thought about since..."
"No." Waving the apology off, the witch beside him hesitated as they passed the church and entered the graveyard behind it. Harry could hear singing within it, and he recognized the tunes. It was Christmas day. He was brought back to the more grim subject as they passed a few children's graves. "I was forced to watch as she was tortured. It was during the initial uprising; his followers were seeking out any members of the original Order of the Phoenix and attempting to gain intelligence. Any families they found, they dismantled. Seeing as my father was a muggle, it made my family a prime target."
"I thought they hated muggle-borns." Harry said as he looked over the names on the headstones.
"Remember that they hated blood traitors as much, if not more, than muggle-borns." The two had stopped at a pair of graves near the center of the burial ground. "He was a muggle priest; he left when he had enough of our sort. My mother was a powerful witch, mind you, but she couldn't fend off a dozen death eaters."
"She was put against a dozen death eaters?" Harry couldn't relate to it. He had seen more than a dozen surrounding himself and Voldemort in the graveyard of Little Hangleton, but they hadn't contributed to the battle. "How did that..."
"They came at dawn." McGonagall said bitterly. "They overtook her quickly and were torturing her by means of the cruciatus curse; death eaters were trying to find me, and she refused to tell them that I would arrive in less than an hour's time."
"And when you arrived.."
"I had to make a choice: Either I risked my life and dueled them in hopes that my mother would escape with my brothers, or I did nothing and waited for the inevitable. "
"What did you do?" Harry had a feeling he already knew the answer. It wasn't like Minerva McGonagall to back down from a good fight; even if she had a high likelihood of losing.
"I fought as long as I could, and my brothers used the distraction to do the same. They were not skilled duelists; they didn't last long. They were killed along with my mother before the death eaters fled. Alastor Moody and a few other Order members had arrived after receiving my warning." Professor McGonagall paused as she looked up into the dark sky. Her expression suggested that she was looking for the right words. "Had Alastor not been holding me back, I would have killed them all..."
"By what means?"
"I cannot answer that honestly."
For a time, the two walked among the graves in silence; each focusing on their own thoughts. Harry could easily relate to the want to kill someone who had accosted his family. In his darker hours, he would gladly kill Pettigrew, Bellatrix Lestrange, and Lord Voldemort himself, but his more logical side would outweigh the need for vengeance. There was always a small voice in his head that would ask him what good it would do to strike the ones who had destroyed his family, and he wanted to think that voice was an imprint of his mother. Lily had seemed the type, from what Harry knew of her, to not wish ill will against anyone; regardless of what they had done to her. It was only when he was about to run head-long into a crumbling gravestone did Harry actually pay attention to where he was going. Kneeling so that he could read the degraded writing, he almost fell over. The name on the headstone was Ignotus Peverell, but that wasn't what caught his attention. Under the name was that same triangular mark that Hermione had pointed out from Dumbledore's copy of The Tales of Beadle the Bard. He made a mental note to mention it to her when he returned to the tent and studied the mark more carefully.
"Grindelwald's mark…" He murmured absently; that seemed to catch his former teacher's attention.
"What?" She turned from the gravestones she had been looking at, and Harry noticed that they belonged to Kendra and Ariana Dumbledore. "Grindelwald? What could you know of him?"
"At Bill and Fleur's wedding," Harry explained. "Xenophilius Lovegood was wearing this mark around his neck on a chain. Viktor Krum saw it and said that it was Grindelwald's mark; said he saw where he had made that symbol on a wall at Durmstrang."
"Xenophilius…" Harry could tell that his head of house had about the same opinion of the man as most did. It was true that Mr. Lovegood was a bit… odd… to say the least. His oddness had obviously rubbed off on his daughter, Luna, but she was still sensible and quite smart. "Ah…" Spotting what Harry meant, McGonagall paused in thought for a moment. "I have seen that before; I was never able to determine its meaning, however."
"We don't know either." Harry shrugged. "Dumbledore left Hermione his copy of The Tales of Beadle the Bard, and the symbol was drawn on one of the pages…" He thought hard in an attempt to remember which tale. "The Tale of the Three Brothers."
"Now that one I remember. The most prominent moral was to be wary of what you wished for."
"Among other things." Harry nodded in agreement with the professor's thought on the story's lesson. He knew all to well to be careful in regard to what he wished for. That had been taught a few times; both at Hogwarts and at the Dursleys'. "It's not in the Syllabary or anything."
Deciding to change subjects due to neither of them knowing what the odd symbol meant, Harry turned his attention to the other pair of graves. "Those belong to Dumbledore's mother and sister, don't they?"
"They do." Professor McGonagall cast an eye back toward the headstones. "Kendra and Ariana died here in Godric's Hollow. As I understand it, they moved here after Albus' father killed three muggles."
"Any idea why he did that?"
"Unfortunately, no." His teacher shook her head, and Harry wasn't surprised. It seemed Albus Dumbledore did indeed have secrets, but he highly doubted they were the likes of which could be found in Rita Skeeter's book. "All I know is he was sent to Azkaban for it and died there."
Harry stepped away from the grave of Ignotus Peverell and moved on through the countless others. He did not recognize any other names as he passed, but he saw messages carved on the crosses, stones, and angels that stood over them. He wondered just how many witches and wizards lived in the area, and how many muggles knew about it. As he neared the back of the yard however, he saw one headstone that stood out pearly white against the black and smoky-looking sky. It was made of marble, much like Dumbledore's tomb at Hogwarts, and he had to walk around it to see the names and inscription that was magically carved into the face of the headstone.
James Potter (27 March, 1960 – 31 October, 1981)
Lily Evans Potter (30 January, 1960 – 31 October, 1981)
"The Last Enemy that Shall Be Destroyed Is Death."
Harry stood reading the headstone again and again; as if to memorize and burn its words into his brain. He had wanted to find them, his parents, but now it made him almost sick to read their names here. It was the same uneasy feeling he had gotten when entering his childhood home and seeing the shadows of what had happened there. Harry withdrew his hand from the warm pocket of his traveling cloak and pulled the glove off of it. He also took the horcrux from around his neck and placed it inside the mokeskin purse for safekeeping. It wouldn't feel right; touching the headstone of his parents with a piece of their murderer's soul hanging around his neck. Once that was done and secure again, he touched the marble surface with his bare hand and ignored the stinging cold. It was a cold he hadn't felt before; solid, filling, and ever-lasting. He tried to pull his hand away, but it wouldn't move.
A sudden rush of unimaginable joy rushed through him, and Harry felt his own mouth twisting into a cruel smile. Everything had happened as it should; the traitor had led them right to this boy, and he was now dead. Harry Potter was dead; killed by the dark lord's curse, but something was amiss. That moment of intense joy, that feeling of being blindly drunk with power, was marred by a growing feeling of dread. Something had gone wrong. In that instant, Harry fell to the ground; screams of agony ringing in his ears, but it wasn't his voice. He could feel someone's arms around him and a growing warmth, but at the same time, there was still a piercing cold coming from his chest, and it felt as if he was splintering; shattering into jagged, icy pieces. Then, just as it had started, it stopped. He was left gasping for breath; long, unstable, but grounding breaths of icy winter air. Only when he had fully regained his sense of self did he start hearing his own breathing again.
"S-something really did go… wrong when he tried to kill me…" Harry managed before he had to take another deep breath. He felt the ground, solid and icy beneath him, and tried to stand. The arms that had kept him from smashing his head on his parents' headstone released, and he was able to regain his footing. Once he was securely upright again, he continued to look at the marble headstone in front of him. "Thanks for that." He said; noting that his voice didn't sound quite as shaky as before. "Happens at the worst of times… At least now, I know what he felt like when he tried to kill me… I'm thankful it hurt him."
"He felt pain when he attempted to kill you?"
"Not at first." Harry finally turned away from his parents' names and faced his former teacher. He explained just what he had felt when he had touched the smooth marble surface; described the pleasure, euphoria, and sudden crippling and splintering pain. He couldn't say what went wrong when the curse backfired, but whatever it was had caused Voldemort enough pain in the end. Even in the limited light that the church and street lamps cast throughout the graveyard, he could see the color only starting to return to her face. Harry could understand it; after all, it wasn't normal for someone to simply collapse out of nowhere and scream as he did. Then it hit him: the reason he only started hearing his own breathing when he regained his self-awareness was because McGonagall had the presence of mind to cast a silencing charm around them to keep from attracting unwanted attention. As an afterthought, he added "Did I say anything?"
"Nothing coherent." She offered. "How often does this happen?"
"This doesn't happen very much." Harry admitted. "I don't usually experience things in his past… I just see what he is doing at the time."
"That is how you were sure he had Garrick Ollivander."
"Yes." Harry had turned to read the headstone again, and found that he couldn't. Each time he tried, his eyes would burn. He imagined them lying just beneath its surface like Dumbledore had in his tomb at Hogwarts. He hated knowing what Voldemort had felt when attempting to kill him, hated seeing his mother blocking the crib with her body and falling to the floor; it was all overwhelming and a reminder of what he would not have ever again. Stepping forward again, he tentatively placed his hand on the marble again, but he did not feel that same wave of cold pass through him. Opening his mouth, he wasn't sure of what he wanted to say, but he felt he needed to say something. What came out made him shut it quickly. "I want to join them."
"I know." Harry hadn't thought he would hear that. He had expected a stern and questioning look. When Professor McGonagall continued, Harry understood just why she had said it. "You stand here; the last of your family, and all that you have left are vague memories of their murders. I presided over the burials of my mother and two brothers; I watched as my remaining family were laid to rest, and I believe you know just how tempting it would have been to join them."
"Would you have actually gone through with it?" Harry asked; he had fully memorized his parents' headstone and could look at it no more. When he turned away, he regarded his professor carefully. Her expression said that she knew full well how he felt at the moment.
"Had others not been there, I might have." She said softly, placing a hand on Harry's shoulder. "I had three people making sure I did not do something unbelievably stupid that day; much like you have Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger."
"I assume Madam Hooch was one of those people." Harry said, reflecting on the two being seen talking frequently at Hogwarts when he was there. "And Professor Sprout as well."
"And Poppy Pomfrey." It looked as if a sudden thought had occurred to her as she confirmed Harry's guess. "Ah, where are Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger, anyway? Typically you three are inseparable."
"Hermione was finishing up setting up the tent on the ridge nearby. She said to go on alone as long as I kept the cloak on."
"And Mr. Weasley?"
"He left nearly a month ago." Harry said flatly. He didn't want to sound too angry about it, but he didn't want it to sound too casual either. "He expected us to find and destroy these things," He indicated the locket in the mokeskin before continuing. "And be on our way home by Christmas. He left around the middle of November and we don't know where he went; haven't heard a word."
"I assume he is worried for his family." There was clear disapproval in her tone as McGonagall spoke, but then again, the slightest amount of understanding was present.
"He's worried, and I can't blame him for that, but he's a right foul git for thinking that all of this would be easy."
"He'll realize soon enough that nothing in this war is easy."
"Eventually, yeah." Harry nodded. "Until then, he'll be living in the illusion that everything will right itself in the end and we won't have to do what I know we have to do."
"Well, he will understand in time. It is interesting how the things we lose come back to us all in the end." Withdrawing her wand, Professor McGonagall pointed it at the headstone before waving it in a circular motion. Where the stone had shown white and plain, a handsome wreath appeared. "The same is true for them. When you are in need of them, you'll be surprised at how they will reveal themselves."
"Wow…" Harry struggled to fully comprehend what she had just said. "I don't know what to say… Thank you, Professor."
"I suggest you lose the formality." Nodding in response to his thanks, McGonagall continued. "Seeing as you are no longer one of my charges."
"Right," Taken slightly aback, Harry understood her meaning. It would be odd at first, but he agreed. "But only on one condition." At her raised eyebrow, he grinned. "That you don't strictly use my surname anymore."
"Fair enough." Harry paced himself for what he was about to say. It would feel odd coming from him, but like everything else, he would adapt.
"Happy Christmas, Minerva."
"Happy Christmas, Harry."
