What started as his greatest desire - to finally have a wand, to be able to cast magic, to be on his way to becoming a full-fledged wizard, turned into a revelation he wished he would have never stumbled upon.
When Harry left Ollivander's, he left it seven Galleons lighter, with a wand in his pocket and his shoulders burdened by the knowledge that the 'brother' of his wand belonged to no one else but the man who killed his parents.
When he left Ollivander's, he was bleary-eyed and saw nothing but shadows in front of him. Out of the stop and having murmured his goodbyes in a murmured tone, he started walking mindlessly on the narrow alleyways, choosing backstreets and muttering idle 'sorry's towards the people he'd bump into. With his head hanging low, the wizards wouldn't even notice who he was, and he preferred it this way, keeping his eyes transfixed on the cobblestone street, while his mind wandered in five different places at once. Harry did not want to face anyone - he didn't think he could handle a single person recognising him, bowing, wanting to shake his hand. He was afraid of what his reaction would be in front of these people idolising him in this godforsaken place.
All he wanted was to melt against one of the walls and disappear.
From behind him, an arm wrapped around his shoulders and stopped him from walking, and Harry immediately recognised the perfume emanating from the witch's robes. He felt a tight squeeze, and let himself be pulled close, not saying a single word. Still with her arm around his shoulders, Dochia's hand reached his forehead, and the enormous sleeve of her yellow robe almost covered him from head to toe, not unlike a cocoon. Harry closed his eyes, and inhaled her perfume deeply, bringing to his mind memories of thick blankets, feverish bouts, and old, dusty books with dragons chasing each other on the covers.
"Hold on tight, love." Harry raised his hands, and held tight onto her arm. He knew what that meant, and was thankful for not having to utter it.
The first time he had experienced Apparition, he almost vomited on the spot when they reached their destination. Despite the sensation lasting for less than a second, Harry felt squeezed like toothpaste in too narrow of a tube. Slowly, he had gotten more and more used to the sensation, however his knees still buckled when Dochia let go of him and he had to take a step forward not to fall.
They were back in the tiny hallway in front of his room at the Leaky Cauldron. A soft buzzing of voices was audible from downstairs, and Harry couldn't see anyone. As Dochia unlocked his door with a spell and opened it, he couldn't help but be glad they were all downstairs, not seeing him, not knowing he was there.
"Want me to stay?"
"I don't know." Harry couldn't muster to say more as he went straight to his bed and laid down, taking off his glasses before he shoved his face in the pillow. An apathy surrounded his body as he didn't find any energy left in himself to move. He listened to the shuffle of Dochia's feet against the carpet, and his chest tightened, heart thumping.
No, he knew - however, he wished she would have known as well.
"Please stay."
His head moved slightly, and out of the corner of his eye, he watched an orange blob glide around his room, and then a small, white blob approach his vision, becoming bigger and bigger, until it completely covered his vision. He felt a light pecking against his temple, and slowly, his chest felt lighter.
The living faces of his parents were etched in his head. Smiling in his photographs of them, looking at him, waving their hands, his father spinning his mother. That was the image Harry preserved of them. Without memories, that was the image he wanted to preserve of them. His mother, with her red hair falling alongside her face. His father, lifting his glasses in the same manner Harry picked up. He knew they were dead, he wasn't a moron, yet until he went to Ollivander's, he had nothing apart from the knowledge of it.
However, now, he had a wand related to the one used in their deaths.
Harry knew he wasn't comfortable with death. He avoided it. When a beloved witch in the village died some three years ago, he was very well aware he was the only person in the whole village who refused to participate in any of the funeral ceremonies. He remembered watching them from afar, either atop an assortment of chairs, or holding himself against their enormous fence, or climbing on the branch of a linden tree, at a reasonable distance from the graveyard. But he didn't find it within himself to be there.
Even when Felix died, he remembered being stuck on the spot, his body frozen, not being able to avert his eyes as Dochia bundled his body in a fresh linen sheet, and cradled the cat like a baby as she left the house. He had no idea where his body went - did she bury him in the garden? In the graveyard? Cremate him?
Back then, at the death of the witch, he wondered, seeing lit candles in the night in her house, watching witches gather in the day to cook and gossip in the garden, watching branches of fir trees floating atop the house, what happened to his parents after they died. Did someone take care of them? Were they cried by their friends? Did anyone hold vigil for them? Did aunt Petunia ever visit his mum?
Were they missed still, by anyone apart from him?
Did anyone visit their graves? Did they even have graves?
One time, perhaps a year or so ago, Dochia took him to a 'famous' graveyard - if you could call a graveyard famous. He remembered his reluctance as he held tight on her on the broom, and then shock as he saw from above the most colourful place he had ever seen. As they slowly went down, he saw not only an assortment of brilliantly vivid flowers, but the gravestones themselves were decorated in bright colours, with enormous drawings. In addition to the usual names and dates, were lines of text, which Harry soon found out were poems.
He read one about a mother-in-law 'Tread lightly, not to wake her up. I'll be damned if she comes home!' One about a single man. 'Too bad the hair on my head greyed, and I've grown old and wrinkly before I died. Pray for my good looks to return!' Harry remembered his surprise, and the explanation Dochia gave him.
"They cherish their loved ones by remembering their lives. What they meant to them." She must have said more, however Harry could not remember her words as much as he remembered the bright gravestones. Even back then, he knew that was just the latest in a chain of attempts to try to get him to want to visit his parent's graves. And he almost fell for it that day - yet decided against it right as he opened his mouth, saying instead that he'd like to go back now.
Thinking still about the bright cemetery, Harry closed his eyes, and allowed himself to fall into a deep sleep, soothed by his owl's soft hoots.
When he woke up, the sun was shining bright through his window. He grabbed his glasses nearby, and finally lifted his head from the pillow. His eyes moved from his sleeping owl, hiding her head in her wing, to Dochia sat and staring outside his window, to a plate of sandwiches and savoury pies sat on a nightstand.
With slow movements, his head clouded by sleep and his eyes bleary, Harry grabbed the plate slowly, and watched his owl's chest gently rise and sink as he dug into one of the sandwiches.
"Good morning, sunshine." Dochia whispered with a smile, turning her head to him.
Harry looked at the clock, his eyes widening as he saw that it showed almost nine. If he wasn't mistaken, even in London at the height of summer, nine in the evening should mean it should be twilight outside. Instead, the sun was shining brightly.
"How long have I slept?" he asked, worried.
"You started snoring at around three or so. I'd say a record sixteen hours, but you woke up in the middle of the night. Do you remember that?"
Munching on his sandwich, Harry tried to remember, yet had no idea. He had a dreamless night, and recalled nothing apart from his visit to the wand store, and his last thoughts as he drifted to sleep. Dochia appeared to nod to herself as he shook his head, and he grabbed another sandwich, offering her one.
"I'm good, sweetie. I had some already. Tom is always trying to push English tea on me when you're not there, you know… I keep telling him, it smells and tastes like-"
"I think I want to visit my parents' graves."
It just came out of him. He didn't even know if he meant it, and part of him almost wanted to shake his head and take it back when she asked if he was sure. He wasn't sure. He doubted he would ever be sure. Would anyone, in his shoes, be sure?
"If-if… if th-there's even…" he stumbled on his words, not knowing how to word his question.
"There is a grave." Dochia stated matter-of-factly, still facing the window.
"How do you know?"
"I've been there."
She said it with ease, as if it was the most normal thing in the world, and he couldn't help but feel a hint of indignation. She had asked before if he had wanted to go, but… he had always thought it was a decision both of them made not to go. He couldn't help but feel as if she had kept this from him. Harry swallowed the last remains of his sandwich, before speaking up.
"When?" his voice was strained.
He had never talked openly about his parent's remains or final place of rest, and found it surprisingly difficult. Did he have the right to tell her not to have gone?
"Does it matter?" her voice was solemn as she spoke, and without waiting for Harry's answer, continued. "Every year since I've had you."
"You never told me."
"Why? Would you have wanted to come with?"
Harry sheepishly grabbed another sandwich, turning his head away. He had refused for years to go, and he knew that she knew that, and that she knew he would have said no. Still with the plate in his hand, he watched as Dochia lifted herself from the chair, and opened the window, explaining it was so his owl could come and go as she pleased until they'd return.
"We can Apparate directly in Godric's Hollow. This time on a weekday, the entire village should be quite empty. I'll go so you can freshen up a bit and change, yeah?" she instructed, approaching him. She ruffled his hair, and asked him to look her in the eye. Harry lifted his head, only for her to ask, once again, if he was sure that he wanted to go.
Well, there's no turning back now, he thought, and nodded. He was afraid to open his mouth. He was afraid something within him, maybe the sane part of him, would say 'no'.
She asked him a third time, about half an hour later, after Harry had taken a shower and changed his clothes. This time, he managed to voice his approval, and without her prompting, grabbed her hand tightly and closed his eyes. Again, he felt pushed within himself, feeling as if he was suffocating for a split-second, before feeling Dochia's arm relax around his grip.
When Harry opened his eyes, he felt his stomach drop. He let go of her arm, and turned his head, trying to take everything in. Under the bright sun, quaint little cottages lined the road they were on, all bearing small stone fences dividing them from the road.
Any of those looked like they could have been his parents' house.
Harry walked slowly, taking everything in. The sights. The smells. Did he ever walk those streets with his parents, or did they walk them with him in their hands? Did his mother ever plant flowers that kept changing their colours and whose leaves waved at him, like he saw in the garden of one cottage on the right, or did he have a broken mini set of Quidditch thrown in one corner, like he saw in the cottage next to it? He looked ahead on the narrow street, and saw, among street lights and a pillar-like monument, a small cross in the distance, affixed onto a roof. That should be the church - and where there's a church, there must be the graveyard.
With a lump in his throat, he walked towards it, at first slowly, then with each step hurrying more and more. He didn't even hear Dochia call after him, until he felt her hand on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.
"Harry. Turn around for a bit, love." she murmured, and Harry followed, turning around.
He'd passed the monument, not caring much for it, but now realised the pillar must have been enchanted for Muggles. In its place now stood a statue bearing what he easily recognised as his parents. Even in marble, he could discern the same untidy-looking hair he had on his father. He stepped closer, and looked at his parents, immortalised in stone. His eyes then fell on the baby in his mother's lap. It was him. He looked at the writing underneath, and saw their names, alongside a small inscription titled 'A mo(nu)ment of love'.
"Who..." Harry began, not knowing how to phrase it. Who paid for it? Who made it? Whose idea was it?
"I think the village did. In the days following the defeat, there were many celebrations for your family, for you. It's all down to love, isn't it? They wanted the wizards who visit here, who come here, to know that a loving family lived here once, and that that's something to celebrate."
"But not the Muggles." Harry couldn't help but joke, a sliver of a smile appearing on his face.
"Come on now!" she reproached, amused.
He gave the monument one last look, before continuing towards the church. Slowly, the extent of the graveyard showed itself to him, and his stomach tightened. The shadow of his smile slowly faded as he turned towards Dochia. Did he need… permission, to enter? From someone in the church? No, that would be ridiculous.
He watched her advance through the churchyard, and he followed her. He watched as parishioners entered the church from the corner of his eye, almost tripping on what looked like an ancient gravestone.
"Sorry-" he said awkwardly, before turning to Dochia. However, she had stopped, and had her arm outstretched ahead.
"Five ahead, four to the right."
"You're not coming?"
"You go first."
He should, shouldn't he? With a heavy heart, he walked slowly among the graves, feeling his stomach tighten more and more as he approached the headstone.
On white marble, he read their names. Their dates of birth. The date inscribed when they died. He wondered who chose the inscription, the marble.
'The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death'
