Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or any of its locations/characters.
5th May, 1998 AD - Godric's Hollow
Harry whistled to himself tunelessly as turned away from the memorial commemorating his parents' deaths and began strolling down the single street that made up Godric's Hollow. It was hardly even a village Harry mused, just a single row of houses with the single spire of St Jerome's Church just visible at the opposite end to where he was, nestled right in the heart of Prescombe Down National Nature Reserve. There wasn't a single shop (not even a pub or post office) and so residents would often take the fifteen-minute walk to the nearby town of Fovant or make the longer drive into Salisbury for their weekly shop.
Harry tried recalling the various facts Hermione had rattled off to him regarding Godric's Hollow when they were both preparing to come here last Christmas. He knew that Godric Gryffindor had been born here sometime in the middle of the 10th century, meaning Gryffindor's parents were some of the first to settle here as the church had only been built a decade or so previously. The village was only named after Gryffindor sometime after the International Statute of Secrecy was ratified in 1689 - the large influx of witches and wizards deciding that the village should be more appropriately named. Despite this, the village continued to maintain a mixed population of both magical and muggle, something that remains true till this day.
Harry slowly strolled down the pavement, enjoying the spring sunshine and making a game of trying to guess whether each house was occupied by wizards or muggles. Some were rather easy - he could sense the wards surrounding some of the magical homes and one even had an old Comet 260 leaning on the wall outside the front door - whereas some were irritatingly difficult. He was just judging the latest house, which looked like it had recently undergone some repair work based on the newly painted window frames and brickwork that had yet to be stained by prolonged exposure to the West Country sun, when he realised with a start that this was Bathilda Bagshot's former residence.
Someone had obviously come along and fixed the place up, Harry thought with a twinge of guilt when he remembered that he and Hermione had caused most of the damage during their fight with Nagini. He debated crossing the road and peering through one of the ground-floor windows but decided against it, not knowing who had actually restored the house. He seemed to remember Hermione mentioning that Bathilda had no living relatives left in Britain, so assumed that the house had been seized by the government and sold at auction after her death. It was a shame really, he thought, that Britain's most celebrated magical historian had met her end in such an undignified way - old, decrepit and confused to the point where she had been tricked into spilling all her secrets to Rita Skeeter before being murdered by Voldemort and having her corpse defiled with dark magic.
He sighed and turned away from the house, determined not to dwell on such sombre topics. He ambled away towards the church, not noticing the single pair of eyes watching him from between a gap in the curtains on the first floor of Bathilda's old home.
After a couple more minutes of walking, he arrived at St Jerome's, letting himself into the graveyard via a rusted iron gate. He strode over to his parents' graves quickly, thankful that he didn't need to search the entire graveyard in freezing conditions this time. He silently vanished the remains of the wreath Hermione had left and conjured a new bouquet of flowers, not remembering the Charms lesson where Professor Flitwick had taught them how to shape the flowers into a wreath.
Having done this, Harry dropped down onto the neatly trimmed grass and simply began talking. The privacy of the graveyard gave him the perfect excuse to do what he wished he could've done so many times in his short - talk with his parents. Almost, anyway.
He told them about the end of the war, Ron and Hermione's new relationship, the state of the Ministry and of all his worries and concerns about what he was going to do next.
He wasn't exactly sure what he was expecting to happen when he finally fell silent. The cold, marble tombstone offered no real answers. He could still feel the weight he carried around on his shoulders, worries and fears of what was expected of him next. He sighed, climbed to his feet and slowly made his way out of the graveyard.
Just as he was about to leave, another tombstone caught his eye. It was right in the corner of the graveyard, the area where the oldest tombstones resided. He quickly strode over to it, and once he was there instantly realised why it had stood out to him.
Ignotus Peverell - he could just about make out the name and the symbol representing the Deathly Hallows above it. There was some other text below the name, but centuries of exposure to the elements had rendered it unreadable.
"It's interesting, is it not, that a simple tombstone can pose so many questions?" a voice suddenly asked from behind him.
Harry spun around instantly, wand flying into his hand from his wrist-holster and a curse on his lips. An elderly man was stood there, looking on with an amused look on his face at Harry's reaction.
"Peace, Mr Potter. I have no intention of duelling you." the man said, slowly raising both arms out to the side of his body to show that he was unarmed. He spoke with a slight accent, but not one Harry was familiar with.
Harry took this opportunity to look more closely at the man. Wispy, white hair clung to the sides and back of his head, leaving a bald dome on top. Deep blue eyes gazed out from below bushy eyebrows, the only noteworthy feature on a face creased and wrinkled with age. He was wearing a short-sleeved, white shirt tucked into a pair of dark grey slacks.
"You know who I am?" questioned Harry, slowing sliding his wand back into its holster.
"Is that really surprising, Mr Potter? Considering the events of the last year, and the last week in particular, I'd be amazed if there was a single witch or wizard in Britain that didn't recognise you. Rita Skeeter's coverage in the Daily Prophet has been especially... enlightening," the man replied, his looking of amusement growing.
Harry couldn't help but scowl at this, as he was fully aware of what Rita had been writing. Gone were the days where she had portrayed him an attention-seeking liar, now he was the man that had obliterated Voldemort and saved Britain with a single spell.
Keen to move away from this topic of conversation and wipe that stupid smirk off the man's face, Harry decided to start asking some questions of his own.
"I'm sorry sir, but I didn't catch your name," Harry said.
"You can call me... Gilbert, Mr Potter," answered the man, "Gilbert Green of Godric's Hollow, at your service."
"Please Gilbert, call me Harry. From what you said, can I take it that you know who is buried beneath this tombstone?" questioned Harry.
"Of course, Harry. After all, what scholar of the Deathly Hallows worth his salt isn't familiar with the empty grave of Ignotus Peverell?" acknowledged Gilbert.
Harry immediately tensed upon hearing this, and even considered drawing his wand again. How much does this man know?
Almost as if he could read Harry's thoughts, Gilbert immediately went to reassure him "Do not worry, Harry. I'll admit that in my youth I did actively seek out the Hallows - who would turn down the chance to gain mastery over death? Alas, I have long made peace with the fact that they aren't meant for me. I've lived a long life, and am hopeful that when I am confronted with death I will greet it as an old friend, as Beedle so eloquently describes it in his interpretation of the story."
"So... erm... you know that I may happen to have some of the Hallows in my possession?" Harry asked nervously.
"Well I assume you are in possession of the cloak, it is your birthright after all. It has long been assumed by Hallows scholars that the cloak had been passed down through the generations, meaning that due to Iolanthe Peverell's marriage to Hardwin Potter that your family were now in possession of it. I also noticed that in one of the photos the Daily Prophet published moments after your victory that you were holding a wand that looked remarkably like the sketch that can be found in Godelot's handwritten, original version of Magick Moste Evile concerning the Elder Wand. Scholars agree that Godelot came into possession of the wand around a century after Egbert the Egregious killed Emeric the Evil. I must confess that I do not know if you are in possession of Cadmus's stone - throughout history, it has proven to be the most elusive of the three - but considering the miraculous stories that have emerged since the Battle of Hogwarts, particularly the one where you managed to convince Lord Voldemort that you were truly dead, I suppose I would not be that amazed to find out that you had managed to reunite the Hallows." explained Gilbert.
"Well, yeah. I may have accidentally become Master of Death shortly before confronting Voldemort," admitted Harry, "What did you mean when you said 'the empty grave of Ignotus Peverell' ? Is he not actually buried here?"
"Incredible," chuckled Gilbert, "Scholars have spent centuries trying to reunite the Deathly Hallows, and you manage to do it unintentionally. Anyway, the answer to your questions regarding Ignotus's grave requires some historical context I'm afraid. You see Harry, the act of burying someone and marking their grave with a tombstone - like the one we see before us - didn't come into practice in Britain until Christianity started to spread here, around the 7th century. We don't know exactly when the Peverell brothers were alive, but most estimates put them at around the year 100 AD, centuries before we used tombstones to mark the resting places of our dead. Back then, the dead would be covered in a raised mound of earth, more commonly known as a barrow. We don't know the exact location of Ignotus's remains, only that they aren't here. Believe me, this grave has been excavated numerous time by those seeking the Hallows and it has always been empty. It isn't known why exactly this tombstone was placed here if there wasn't a body, but it's assumed that one of Ignotus's descendants, your ancestor, simply wanted to commemorate one of the more famous members of your family." clarified Gilbert.
Harry pondered this new information, not really sure what to make of it. He wondered whether he had made the right decision in refusing to wield the Hallows, preferring to leave the wand and the stone hidden at Hogwarts. He couldn't deny the temptation he felt, almost like an itch he couldn't scratch, to retrieve the objects and see just how powerful they made him. He thought back on the dreams he had been having, and the absurd ease at which he had overcome various challenges in them. Would it really be wrong to use that power to help rebuild Britain? Or was it simply too much power for anyone to wield responsibly?
"Gilbert, since becoming Master of Death I've been having these strange dreams - reliving situations in my life where the Hallows would've come in handy. Do you know why?" asked Harry, deciding to see if the knowledgeable scholar could shine any light on them.
Gilbert paused a moment, a look of contemplation crossing his face. "Well, I must admit that dream interpretation has never been a strength of mine - or any branch of Divination really - but there are several records throughout history of wielders of the Elder Wand experiencing dreams and visions. I assume your dreams will be an extension of that, exacerbated perhaps by the fact that you are in possession of all three Hallows. Have you done anything particularly spectacular with the Hallows since you reunited them?"
"Well... here's the thing..." Harry began, frantically trying to think of a way he could justify hiding the Hallows to a man that had seemingly devoted a large proportion of his life to their finding, "I don't actually have them anymore, apart from the cloak. I hid the wand and the stone so others wouldn't find them."
"What? What would possess you to do that?" spluttered Gilbert incredulously.
"I don't want them! I have absolutely no use for that sort of power, not anymore anyway. That sort of power can change someone, and rarely for the better. I'm through with being special. I don't want any unnatural powers, or the responsibilities and expectations that will inevitably come with it when people find out I have them." Harry shot back, the frustrations of the past few days bubbling close to the surface.
"You seem confused Harry. What are you really scared of? The responsibilities of being handed immense power or the consequences of what could happen if you misuse it?" challenged Gilbert.
"Neither. Both. I don't know!" bemoaned Harry, "What if I'm not strong enough? What if I let the power corrupt me, like Voldemort?"
"Harry, I'm going to speak plainly. I apologise in advance if I offend a national hero." began Gilbert, "Every idea you have about power is wrong. If it was power on its own that made us evil then the human race would never have made it out of our caves. The real danger isn't power, it's fear. Fear is the ultimate corrupter of man - fear of death, fear of failure, fear of rejection. Humans are weak, so we let our fears rule us. We let them twist and distort our personalities until we are unrecognisable, cowardly echoes of our former selves capable of unimaginable horrors. I was under the assumption that you were sorted into Gryffindor, Harry Potter. The house of the chivalrous, the noble, the brave. Are you really going to let your shortsighted fears decide your future for you? Hideaway in your mansion hoping the world moves on without you? I'm afraid it doesn't work like that Harry. None of us really get to decide what parts we play in this life - Fate rolls her dice and we simply fall into place. Burying your head in the sand hoping that the forces that rule our universe will forget about you won't work. I don't believe it's mere coincidence that after thousands of scholars have dedicated their lives to finding the Hallows that you manage to reunite them minutes before vanquishing Voldemort. You were meant to wield the Hallows, there is no question about it. The sooner you realise this, the sooner you can get on with your life."
"So what, I don't even get a choice in the matter?" Harry moaned petulantly, not really caring if he sounded childish.
The look of amusement reappeared on Gilbert's face. "If the higher powers have chosen you to be their instrument Harry, then it is undoubtedly in your best interests to comply. Of course, no one can force you to recollect the Hallows, but I think if you truly look inside yourself, you will realise that this is for the best. I must confess that I overheard some of your soliloquy by your parents' graves. The solution seems obvious to me - you don't know what to do with your life, and here you are with a golden opportunity. Take up the Hallows, and see where they lead you. If your intentions remain pure and your fears remain conquered, then I do not believe you will regret this."
Harry paused and considered this. Gilbert made some good points - if he was going to be forced to wield some measure of responsibility in this new world, then surely it would be better to go for the abstract, magical kind then some bullshit political position.
He sighed, knowing what he would have to do next, and more annoyingly, where he would have to return. He looked back at Gilbert, debating how to thank him for his words of wisdom when a better idea popped into his head. Gilbert had apparently spent his entire life searching in vain for the Hallows, surely he would appreciate a quick look at them.
"Hey Gilbert, do you have any plans this afternoon?" asked Harry, smiling as Gilbert shook his head, "How would you feel about accompanying me on a quick trip to Hogwarts - I believe there are a couple of my possessions there that I need to retrieve."
According to the Harry Potter wiki, the Peverell brothers all lived around the 12th century. I've obviously changed this for my story.
Next Chapter: Firenze's Warning