'The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death'
Harry took a seat on the grass, and looked around. This early in the morning, the graveyard was mostly empty. He saw, in the distance, an old woman bending down above a headstone, and saw her lips moving. He wondered if he should talk as well - that was, after all, what people did. He opened his mouth, thought about what would be best to say, yet nothing came to him, and Harry closed it back.
It wasn't like his parents were able to listen.
Digging in his trousers, he took the envelope which contained his Hogwarts letter. He kept the second page, which listed everything he needed, and took one final look at the first page, before folding it thrice. Harry didn't know why he was doing it, but as he was digging a small hole by the marble, and shoved his folded Hogwarts letter, it just… felt right.
He got up, and saw Dochia approach from a distance. In her hand, she had a bouquet of irises, which she held in front of her, nodding to Harry. He took them in one arm, and saw her motion to the headstone. He placed them gently onto the marble, covering the freshly dug spot of dirt with their end.
"I don't… feel like crying." he finally said, as he took a step back, until he felt her elbow against his shoulder. He'd always do that, when he would want her to take notice of him, or simply to assure himself of her presence. "Or talking to them. People do that, don't they?"
"Only if they feel like it."
He stood still, looking again from his father's to his mother's name. It was only as he looked more at the headstone that he discovered small remnants of other people visiting. Tiny petals hidden in the grass. Wick ends, here and there, and small, transparent bits of candle wax.
"There's no normal way to grieve, Harry." Dochia continued, and he nodded. "Let's go for a walk. See how other people rest. Say, have I ever told you about Miorita?"
Harry shook his head, and followed her. Every now and then, Dochia would ask if he'd heard of a story or other. If not, she'd recite it, and then asked him what meaning he gave to it. He always felt as if he had to take some important lessons out of it, yet in many cases, he simply did not know. Most of them were spoken in verses - there wouldn't be a single summer in Romania where he wouldn't hear a new version of an old story, accompanied by a lute, a fiddle, or just voices accompanying each other.
She spoke about the story of three shepherds, and how two of them planned to kill the other for his larger flock of sheep. Yet one of his sheep knew how to speak, and warned him of the impending murder, and advised him to run, to protect himself. Instead, the shepherd accepted that was his fate. Instead of running, he advised his sheep where he wants to be buried, and that if his mother asks, he didn't die, he married a princess far away, and they had a beautiful wedding.
"Why didn't he run?" Harry waited for her to finish the description of the wedding, before finally asking.
Dochia gripped him tighter by the shoulders, her voice a whisper as they passed another ancient gravestone. She pondered his question for a long time, before simply saying 'I wonder…'
"Should we go?" Harry proposed. He saw the people leaving the church, and did not feel ready to return to the gravestone, not in the presence of others at least. He let himself be led out of the cemetery, looking up at the memorial once again as they passed it.
They took a different route to the one at first, which Harry was ready to question, before noticing a cottage that looked markedly different than the others - on account of the top half being blown apart, as well as the complete state of disarray it was in.
"Is this-"
Without even thinking whether he wanted to go closer to it, he felt his legs move almost on their own accord towards it. That was his house. That big, wide, gape was once his room. With toys. With his mum. With his parents.
"It is. They kept it. Go closer to the gate. Look- " she approached the gate, and pointed to a spot. Harry went closer, and watched as a sign grew and unfolded itself in front of him like a blooming flower. He read the sign with difficulty, as with every word, he felt his eyes well more and more with tears. He tried to wipe them furtively, before reaching out with a hand, touching all the scribbles around it. Initials, names, some of them with surnames he recognised earlier from the graveyard, and small messages, wishing him a happy life, luck, and love. He looked back up at the house.
"They all think I'm great. What if I don't-..." his voice strained as he spoke, and he cleared his throat. "What if I'm not as great and special as they think I am?" He felt Dochia's grip on his shoulder tighten, realising that she had not let go of him all this time.
"You don't have to be, Harry. You've done more than enough. You survived, and you're alive, and that's what people love you for."
Harry felt like he understood the wizards of Britain more. Perhaps they were not just the crazed people who looked for any attention from him as 'The Boy Who Lived'. Reading their messages, Harry felt closer than ever to all of these anonymous people.
Ah, I completely forgot about this thing.
As Harry dug for some Galleons in his trousers to pay for his cauldron, he discovered the small object Aunt Petunia gave him. Holding it tight between two fingers, he paid the shopkeeper, exiting the store. He had forgotten to ask about his aunt's odd gift, and still had no idea what it could be.
However, now he also had Dochia's gift hanging around his arm, sleeping soundly. She had given it to him after they had returned from Godric's Hollow.
However, whilst breathing, this was not a pet like Hedwig, his owl. It was a small, carved dragon, shining in golden hues in the sun. A Welsh Green, which he managed to identify when it awoke from its slumber. When he first opened its lacquered box, its front legs were sprawled outwards, and its tail was straight and pointy, in an almost grotesque caricature of a cross. It looked more like a knife than an animal. Which is why, unlike Hedwig - which he named from one of the books he would soon study in his History of Magic classes - he was not too bothered naming it.
Harry lifted his hand. He could still see the marks where the tiny dragon bit him. When he had first reached for it, he didn't know how to best grab it, and decided to treat it like a dagger from its shape. And just as he had put his fingers underneath its belly, its head shot backwards towards his wrist, pricking his skin and drawing blood. That was how they gained ownership, Dochia explained. They only answer to their owners, who can train them until they are able to grasp from a single look what the owner wants.
What he did as a first exercise in obedience was easy. He first trained it to hide, and when it finally learnt what he wanted, the little dragon scuttered under his cuff, climbing past his elbow, and wrapping itself around his arm like a bracelet. While in the beginning, Harry could swear he could feel its belly rising, pressing against his skin, by now he had forgotten about the little creature. He'd only remember when he'd take his shirt off, and see it sleep soundly. If he were to pry it away from his skin, it would turn back into its cross-shape, until he would awaken it again.
He enjoyed taking the little golden creature with him around Diagon Alley. Dochia let him explore to his heart's content, mentioning being busy with one thing or another. At first, he was quite discontent with spending the rest of his summer in London - when he'd said his goodbyes at the train station, he promised Gavril it was for a short trip, however Harry had to send Hedwig with a letter explaining his acceptance to Hogwarts. He would soon get accustomed to sending letters through Hedwig to various friends from back in Romania, and corresponding in this way with them.
However, back to his stay in London, it was the stares he had not gotten accustomed to - and would he ever? He tried his best to smile when wizards and witches, old and young alike, wanted to pull him aside, shake his hand, take a photograph with him, ask him about his life, wish him luck and well. And part of him did truly smile, the part that knew that these wizards and witches may have contributed to the giant statue of him and his parents, or visited his house, writing well-wishes to a stranger.
He knew there was an air of prying in their questions. He knew very well that for them all, Harry Potter fully disappeared from the public eye, save for the short periods they would see him in London. And they wanted to know - but not for the sake of knowing him as a person, as much as for the sake of knowing more about The Boy Who Lived.
Last year, he had asked Tom the innkeeper, one of the only people who knew where he had grown up, why he had never said anything. With his usual toothless grin, Tom told Harry that there were juicier secrets he was privy to, but that keeping them secret was part and parcel of his job. And that if he were to babble about one thing, his patrons would lose their trust, and him the business.
He had made the decision a while ago to not tell people where he had grown up. He'd seen an excerpt about himself already in Modern Magical History, and was sure there were many other books mentioning more or less the same. The part he read mentioned rumours that he went to live with Muggles from his mother's side of the family. Nothing but rumours, which he enjoyed knowing. He enjoyed them not knowing every single aspect of his life.
Let them wonder! He thought to himself, carrying his cauldron. The brass scales he bought earlier clinked against it, and Harry figured it best to return back to the Leaky Cauldron and drop them off. He had already bought a new trunk to accommodate all of his school supplies, which he hoped by the end of his stay in London would be big enough to carry all of his books, robes and growing array of school supplies.
Harry turned to walk towards the Leaky Cauldron, when he heard words familiar to him, making his head turn to the side. The voice was hoarse, coming from an old man with dark, slicked-back hair, wearing a dark blue Muggle suit. Next to him was a woman in a dark coat, looking like his wife by the way she held onto his arm, and in front of them, what appeared to be a young girl, dressed in Muggle clothing, carrying a wand.
"And what's this again, dad? Why'd they take twenty of those?" he asked in Romanian, impatient.
"It's not ten to one, dad…"
"Well then?" Harry watched him jingle the coins in his palm, his wife taking a couple of Sickles and examining them closely.
"Oh, I don't even want to think about going back to that godforsaken bank." she grumbled as the girl mouthed that she forgot, now looking around, as if hoping the answer would be written on the walls.
Harry couldn't help but hold a chuckle as the father grumbled a half-hearted '...spit on their crosses and-' before walking towards them.
"Hi, uh… I couldn't help but notice… Do you need any help?" he asked in English, slowly.
The father lowered his hand as the girl explained they had forgotten how wizarding currency works. He looked at the father's palm, and pointed to each of the three types of coins.
"Twenty-nine Knuts go into a Sickle, and seventeen Sickles are a Galleon. It doesn't make much sense, I know…" he added, seeing the father wipe the nape of his neck with a napkin as he explained the money.
"They don't like to make it easy for us folks, do they?" The father addressed him in English with a grin as he closed his hand, putting the money back in a pocket of his wallet. "Thank you, thank you. Tell me, are you here too for, ah-... Anica, dad, what's it called again?"
Harry tried his best to pretend as if he did not understand, nodding solemnly only when the daughter answered 'Hogwarts'.
"We got the letter a few days ago, had this lady with a big hat come to our house, explained about… wizards and magic and all of that." the mother explained, and the father added.
"Thought it was bullshit, until she lifted the couch with me in it! Was it the same to you-...?"
"Harry." he introduced himself. The man grabbed his hand in a tight handshake, introducing himself as Gheorghe, his wife as Georgina, and his daughter Ana. His palms were raspy and callous, the only smooth thing about his hands being his thick wedding band. "No, I-... I think they only do that with-" Harry stammered, not knowing how to address him. The parents were Muggles, however for some reason, he felt awkward saying it while looking up at Gheorghe. "When the parents aren't wizards. I only had a letter sent."
"Are your parents with you too?" Unlike her father, Ana had what could be considered a 'proper' English accent, which Harry couldn't help but be a bit surprised by.
"No." he smiled. "They're not, they're, uh, dead."
"Oh, I'm sorry-" Ana started, covering her mouth.
"No, it's fine, it's fine." Well, it wasn't fine. It was a bit of a lie, yet it wasn't like they could have known anything about it - and Harry wondered if he'd rather have everyone know and never ask about his parents, or if he'd rather have hundreds of conversations explaining his parents are no longer with him. "They died when I was very young, so I don't remember them well."
The mother finally spoke, as both her parents did a sign of the cross, asking the daughter how to say 'may they rest in peace' in English. Harry turned his head from the conversation, to catch the glimpse of two wizards. They appeared to be father and son, by their resembling pale and pointy faces, their dark robes wildly contrasting with their palour and whitish blonde hair. They appeared to be talking derisively and sneering, the young boy pointing at them. Harry couldn't help but notice it might have been as all four of them wore Muggle clothing.
Catching the boy's sneer and look, without thinking Harry raised his hand, parting his wild hair seemingly to tame it, making sure the boy would see his scar. The boy's sneer died, his eyes widening as Harry turned himself around, facing the Muggle father. He was idly talking to his wife and daughter about how a great-grandmother of his may have been a witch. Amused with his own little story, he turned to Harry, and winked, before asking him in English if Hogwarts was any good.
It was - It was the best in Europe, Hagrid had assured him. And his letter from Gavril, which he received a few days after the event with the Romanian Muggle family and their witch daughter, mentioned most of the same.
Harry,
We're very proud of you here! Old Avizina figured that was the case, said you're around the age. She wants you to know Hogwarts is going to be the perfect fit for you, and doesn't want you to worry about a thing. Said you're in the best hands there. Don't ask me why, you know how she is. Old coot.
Are you there already? Write to me, I want to know everything. Even the bad back when you can and show me what you've learnt.!
Forever your friend,
Gavril
P.S. If anyone's a bitch to you there, let me know. I've been learning a spell or two myself here. I'll show them around!
Even old Avizina knew it. It was one of the greatest schools, where magnificent wizards and witches have gone through to be educated. Sometimes, the thought of it made him shudder, and he didn't know why. Maybe it was anticipation?
It must be, he thought, as the day of his departure arrived. He knocked on Dochia's door after he had packed his trunk and gotten dressed, and pressed an ear against the door. He heard a hurried exhale, and the window closing. She'd never smoke in front of him, or even admit to him that she smoked, but Harry knew his guardian well - she was a noticeably loud smoker, if that was even a thing.
"Ready?" Dochia's voice rang from the other side of the door, and Harry took a step back, grabbing Hedwig's cage.
"Ready."