Godric’s Hollow
“It’s destroyed,” Remus said, allowing Harry the luxury of looking at him angrily. “I’m sorry I was so short-tempered with you in the forest, Harry, but for Maeve’s sake we had to act quickly.”
“Am I allowed to know what happened, or is that beyond me as well?” Harry was alone in his room, Ron having gone down to breakfast in the Great Hall. He had been packing, frustrated at having the Horcrux snatched from him at the last minute. This had been his task, Dumbledore’s legacy to him. He hadn’t expected Remus to step in at the last minute and claim the spoils.
“Maeve succeeded in accomplishing its destruction. She seems to instinctively know what must be done.” Remus was pleased that Harry was no Legilimens as he kept the truth of the night’s events from him. He did not know if Maeve had returned to the castle yet, but with classes about to start he wondered if she would be in any state to teach them.
“And is she… Is she all right?” Harry couldn’t help the concern he felt, despite his annoyance at being sidelined so effectively. He threw another sweater into his case, giving the sleeve a vicious tug as it caught on the buckle.
“I’m not sure. No doubt we will know soon enough.”
“What do you mean, you’re not sure?” Harry asked. “How can you not be sure? You didn’t leave her alone, did you?”
“She was cared for,” Remus said, finding the room had become uncomfortably hot. “Perhaps you would like to check on her before you leave. She will have an hour before classes begin. I’m sure she’d rather see you than me.”
Harry glanced at the small wooden clock and found it was already almost eight. “I suppose I could,” he grumbled. “I’m off to Godric’s Hollow this afternoon. I’m going to visit mum and dad’s grave.”
Remus regarded him gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I think the time is right for you to do that,” he said. “Perhaps an earlier time would have been too soon. You can fully appreciate their sacrifice now.”
“Yeah, well… And what are you going to do?”
“Who knows,” Remus admitted. “With the Order in disarray and the Ministry still not content to give werewolves gainful employ I suppose I will go back to doing what I can.”
“Couldn’t Professor McGonagall offer you a job maybe? It wouldn’t have to be as a teacher, would it?”
Remus shook his head. “My time at Hogwarts is over, Harry, as is yours. We need to find our place in the world again.”
“Well." Harry sensed Remus was drawing away and prepared himself for the moment of parting. “Goodbye, for now at least,” he said, holding out his hand to Remus. They shared a warm handshake and Remus felt for the first time that Harry had become a man over the summer. There was no difference in them now; Harry had finally caught up to his teachers.
With Remus gone, Harry realised he had better do something about informing Maeve of his intentions before her classes started. He finished putting what few things he had brought into the suitcase and closed it roughly. With a frown at Ron’s untidy morass of clothes, which still hadn’t been packed, he left the room and headed off to Maeve’s new rooms.
The corridors were still blissfully quiet, all the students either getting dressed or already at breakfast. Harry wasn’t sure how being an outsider made him feel. He no longer wore school uniform, nor spared a thought for textbooks and homework. He had been amazed at just how quickly he had forgotten what it was like to follow the school routines, to be a part of a large society of people that was so self-contained. Percy was the only person who passed him, giving a curt nod before hurrying on his way. Harry couldn’t imagine Percy lasting much longer here; he wasn’t McGonagall’s style really.
As he approached Maeve’s room he re-adjusted his attitude and decided that the slightly put-out face he had used for Remus wouldn’t be appropriate now. He remembered what it had cost Dumbledore to destroy the ring; he didn’t think Maeve would have fared any better. Knocking lightly he thought he saw a shadow by the statue that occupied this part of the corridor. The whole world seemed full of shadows now, real or imagined.
Maeve’s muffled voice called for him to enter and he pushed open the door, eager for her version of events. She was standing by the fire, her hands holding the back of a chair. He could see that she was pale, the left side of her face white against her red hair.
“Maeve, how are you? Did it go okay?” Harry’s eagerness wasn’t quenched by her sluggish response but as she turned to him Harry felt sick.
“It went as well as could be expected,” she said in a slow, potion-dulled manner. “We succeeded, at least.”
“What happened to your face?” Harry looked with anger on her scarred cheek.
Maeve gave a heavy laugh. “What do you think happened, Harry? The part of Voldemort’s soul contained in that cup wasn’t too happy about being destroyed. I’m afraid it caught me before it died.”
“And has it been treated?” He winced at the bright-red line that traced the place where Severus had re-joined her skin. Her cheek was swollen and mottled with broken blood vessels.
“Yes.” She laughed again and Harry couldn’t help notice that she was reluctant to let go of the chair. “Believe me, it was far worse.” Maeve felt the room swim a little and wondered how she would ever make it through the day.
“Madam Pomfrey is very good with cures,” Harry observed, remembering his many visits to the hospital wing. “I’m sure there’ll be little scarring.”
“I’ve been told there should be no scarring at all,” Maeve reassured him, taking care not to tell him that it wasn’t Madam Pomfrey who had wrought a cure for her injury. No scarring that would be visible, she thought, fighting the bile that rose in her throat. She had been unable to eat or drink, every time she imagined something going down her throat it constricted and her stomach lurched. “Considering what we have achieved, I think I got off lightly.”
She finally plucked up the courage to let go of her armchair crutch and winced as her robes grazed slowly healing knees. Harry moved towards her but she waved him away. “I need to walk, Harry. I need to walk this malaise off.”
“You can’t teach in that state,” he said, seeing the pain hurtle across her face. “You need to go to bed and allow the effects to wear off. Didn’t Madam Pomfrey insist you stay in the hospital wing?”
“I need to work,” she insisted. “I need to…”
A knock at the door prevented her from finishing but she didn’t have the chance to say anything before it was flung open and Roderick strode into the room.
“I hope you’re not thinking about working in that condition,” he said to her, nodding a greeting towards Harry. “What are you even doing up and about?”
“I have to work,” she repeated for Roderick’s benefit.
“Have to? There’s no have to about it. What you have to do is go to bed… Just look at the shape of you. What did that to your face?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, wavering slightly between the chair and the table.
“I’ve tried to tell her,” Harry said. “She won’t listen. Someone else could take her classes.”
“Someone else will take her classes.” Roderick stuck his arm out helpfully just as Maeve lost her battle to stand upright. He caught her and sat her down in the armchair that had so valiantly been holding her upright just moments earlier. “I have no idea what you have been up to, Professor Snape, but you’re in a right pickle now.”
“I’ll go and get McGonagall,” Harry said, glad he didn’t have to leave her alone.
“Don’t bother Professor McGonagall,” Maeve pleaded. “She has enough to worry about.”
“She’s the headmistress. It’s her job to worry. No, it’s no good. You can go back to bed – that’s if you even made it there last night.” Roderick gave her a piercing look and Maeve sank back against the support of the chair.
“Tell McGonagall that I’ll take Maeve’s classes this morning. I have none of my own to worry about, and then she can sort something else out for this afternoon. Damn it all, Maeve, why did you have to be so stupid?”
Maeve had closed her eyes but opened them again when he spoke, wondering at the sudden hint of knowledge in his voice. She saw Harry leave the room and groaned as a fresh wave of nausea attacked her stomach. Roderick walked through to her bedroom and noted the carefully made bed, she had been in no position to make it so neatly this morning and he knew that she had been out all night. Frowning he fetched her nightdress and nightgown.
She appeared to have nodded off already when he returned to the sitting room. “Come on,” he said, lifting her from her drowsing position. “Delightful though it would have been to see you in that pretty silk, you’re not even fit to get yourself to your bed.” With a gentleness that would have surprised Maeve had she been conscious, he placed her carefully into her bed and left her to rest after her ordeal.
Harry was pleased to be free of Hogwarts. He and Ron had travelled into Hogsmeade – after he had seen that Professor McGonagall was aware of Maeve’s needs – and they were now sitting in a secured carriage on the train being carried south by the rhythmic labour of the red engine. Ron was particularly pleased to have his best mate all to himself and was regaling him with tales of his summer with Hermione. He was building up to a particularly good punch line when Harry turned to him with a stern expression.
“Ron, if you don’t mind I have other things to think about than you snogging Hermione.”
“Oh, right,” Ron said, his face colouring a little. “Was I really going on about Hermione?”
“Yes,” Harry replied, “you were, endlessly.”
“She really is a great gir…”
“Ron.”
“Sorry.” Ron fumbled around in his bag and pulled out what looked suspiciously like a photograph. Harry turned away and Ron thought better of drawing his attention to the smiling Hermione in the picture.
They lapsed into silence for a while, Harry watching the countryside flash past with ever increasing anxiety gnawing at his mind. He had no idea what he was about to discover in the small Muggle village that had witnessed the death of his parents, but whatever it was, he was sure he was ill prepared for it. He mirrored Ron’s actions and pulled a picture from his bag, only his contained the joyful figures of his mum and dad standing in a garden that was yellowed by the dying sun. They waved at the camera, his father mouthing something as his mother laughed. Trees swayed in the background, their leaves newly shed, and a gate swung loose, clanging against its post in the wind that shook the scene.
The date had been scrawled on the back of the picture and Harry knew that they had died just three weeks after the photographer had captured this relaxed scene. He knew that inside the cottage behind them he was probably fast asleep in his cot, sucking a carefree thumb or cuddling an innocent soft toy. And then it had all gone wrong and… Well, it had all just gone wrong. He tucked the photograph back in his bag and Ron watched him concentrate on not becoming emotional.
“It’ll be all right,” he said. “It’ll be good for you to see the place where they’re… Well, see their…” Ron gave up and offered Harry a box of Every Flavour Beans.
“You can talk about it,” Harry replied, putting the beans on the seat beside him, not in the mood for sweets. “I’m not afraid of the fact I’m going to see my mum and dad’s graves. With everything that’s happened, I think it’s about time I went and said hello to them, don’t you?”
“I suppose so,” Ron mumbled, uncomfortable with talk about saying hello to blocks of stone. His mum still went and talked to Bill’s grave and Ron hated being dragged along with her. He didn’t think Bill was beneath that particular piece of earth, didn’t think that he had to go to that place to talk to his dead brother. “Is there anything else you want to do while you’re there?” he asked.
“Dunno, have a look around. I’ll maybe find the place their house stood; find our last family home. And there could be…” he trailed off, not sure of what there could be but hoping all the same.
“What could there be?” Ron leaned forward in his seat and spilled his own pack of beans over the floor. As he scrabbled to pick them up a face paused at the window in the door of the carriage. Harry watched as he was scrutinized for a few moments, arctic eyes looking him up and down. He was just about to get up and challenge his unwelcome audience when the man moved away. “What’s up?” Ron said, his beans back in their box once more.
“Nothing,” Harry murmured, not taking his eyes of the place where the stranger had stood. “But I think the sooner we’re off this train the better.”
“Why?” Ron followed Harry’s gaze and saw nothing but a blank window. “Seems fine to me. Carriage has been charmed, so we’re in no danger, are we?”
“I don’t think the people that would like to get their hands on me would be bothered by a few charms.” Harry pulled a face and went back to looking out of the window.
They left the train at King’s Cross where Arthur Weasley was waiting in a silver Ministry car. Harry was always pleased to see Arthur and today was no exception. If Arthur still felt the effects of the illness he had suffered last year he didn’t show it — in fact quite the opposite. Arthur’s face was alive with vigour and he smiled broadly when he clapped eyes on Harry. Leaping from the car – rather too hurriedly for a passing taxi nearly took the car’s door with it – he patted Harry heavily on the back and greeted him with warm affection.
“Harry, glad to see you again. You’re looking very well.” Arthur was jostled by a young family who were running to claim the taxi that had so nearly relieved the Ministry car of its door and for a moment Harry was unable to answer.
“Thanks, Mr Weasley,” he replied. He had seen Arthur and Molly at the funeral but they had little opportunity to talk and so it was nice to get the chance now. “It’s been a tough week but it’s done.”
“Yes, funerals are always hard on those left behind.” Arthur gave him his best sympathetic look and tried not to think about the fact they had lost their figurehead.
Ron made a funny grunting sound and threw his bags into the back seat of the car. “You two going to stand around talking all day or are we going to get a move on?”
“Ermm… Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Arthur said, looking at his Muggle watch and smiling at the green digits that glowed back at him. It was only when he was out in the Muggle world that he could use it. The magic at The Burrow and the Ministry sent its little battery haywire and he found the sporadic electric shocks it gave him not worth the pleasure of wearing it. “Give me your bag, Harry.”
“That’s all right, Mr Weasley. I’ll stick it on the back seat.” Harry clambered in after Ron and wondered why Ron was suddenly sulking. With a smooth hum the car moved away from the pick-up point and Arthur neatly cut up the now irate taxi driver who shook an angry fist at him. Harry was too busy scowling at the taxi driver and returning his V-sign to notice the sleek black car that pulled out immediately after them, its occupants obscured by the tinted windows.
The journey up to Godric’s Hollow took them through the built up suburbs of London and out into the vast flat expanse of Cambridgeshire. As they pulled off the busy motorway and began to follow a much quieter A-road Harry had the chance to collect his thoughts once more. Ron was still sulking over the fact that his dad had greeted Harry and completely ignored him. He had been wondering why the black car had been behind them since London, but as no one else seemed to worry about it he didn’t see why he should.
They skirted the proud city of Cambridge, emerging into fen country and the endless horizons of East Anglia. Arthur turned his head to glance into the back of the car. “Almost there, Harry.”
“Thanks,” Harry replied, taking in every inch of the scenery that surrounded him. It was late harvest time and the farmers were still busy, their tractors trundling by with loaded trailers of potatoes, turnips and what he thought was sugar beet. The trees were not quite in the advanced state of slumber as they had been in the photograph of his mum and dad, but they were slowly turning, the first hints of gold at their edges. “Will you be accompanying us, Mr Weasley?”
“You know, Harry, I think it’s high time you called me Arthur. And I’ll stay with the car unless you need me for anything. You have a small map of the place, don’t you?”
“Yeah, Remus made one for me.” As he spoke Arthur indicated to pull off the main road and they were now on a much narrower lane that twisted its way to a small cluster of houses that slept around a squat grey church with a low, crenellated tower. Harry hadn’t actually looked at the map yet, but he guessed from looking at the diminutive number of buildings that made up Godric’s Hollow that it wouldn’t be a large one.
Arthur stopped the car by the lych gate that guarded the entrance to the church and Harry looked at the well-kept blue sign that announced the name of the church as…
All Welcome
Services officiated by Hilary Salmon
“All welcome?” Ron grumbled. “Doesn’t look very welcoming to me.”
“Ron, that’ll be quite enough of that sort of talk,” Arthur said, sounding a warning note that indicated he took a very dim view of Ron’s churlishness.
“I think it looks just right,” Harry said. He was only too happy to get out of the car, leaving his bag on the back seat and walking towards the charming gate that arched above the path, dying roses growing up its bowed wood. “I think, if I could choose, this is exactly where I would want to be buried.”
The silence would have been complete had it not been for the clarity of the birdsong that came from the trees surrounding the church. The air was still and Harry felt as if he had stepped out of the world for a short time, real concerns drifting away to allow him a small pocket of peace in which to pay his respects to his dead parents.
“We’ll wait here,” Arthur said, taking hold of Ron’s arm as his son made to follow Harry. “If you want us, just shout.”
Harry nodded and turned away, following the well-tended path that snaked its way around the side of the grey building. A great many of the gravestones were very old and extremely weathered. He paused to look at a few of them and found he could barely read the faded stonework. As he turned the corner of the building he found himself at the side, where even more graves stones jostled for space in what was really a very small graveyard. Chilled by loneliness he paused, knowing that when he turned the corner again he would be at the rear of the church and in the gravestones there he would find his mum and dad.
A slight breeze gave him a gentle shove in the right direction and he stepped into the late summer sunshine, its light warming away the sudden chill. There were several long rows of higgledy-piggledy headstones here, some leaning alarmingly, ready to fall. Many were moss-covered, and lichen thrived in this moderate atmosphere. Harry could see the new graves at the back of the older ones, their bright marble a stark contrast to the older, grey-green stones that surrounded him. He picked his way carefully through the graves, trying desperately not to stand on any but finding it difficult because of the haphazard placing of the stones. Making mental apologies to any whose graves he accidentally stood on he finally made it to the end of a row of around twenty new graves. White and black marble alternated with local stone as the material of choice.
Gathering his courage and his emotions he began to walk down the line reading the names as they crawled back in time. 1994 was the most recent, then came two for 1990 and one for 1989. Apparently the residents of the village were a healthy bunch because the next grave… well… Harry knew the grave that contained the remains of his parents before he read the inscription. It was simple headstone, creamy stone with plain carving on it. He steeled himself to read the work of the stonemason.
James William Potter. Beloved husband of Lily.
Died tragically 31st October 1981
Lily Potter. Beloved wife of James.
Also died tragically 31st October 1981.
And Harry knew that now he had been presented with something tangible, something that he could reach out and touch, that the need to avenge his parent’s deaths was even stronger. He didn’t feel sad or mournful, didn’t feel the loss of the years he could have spent with his parents. He had been feeling those things all his life. Now he felt the hardening of his heart and the blind need to deal with Voldemort as quickly and cleanly as he possibly could. And the next Horcrux would not be swept away by Remus or Maeve. This was his fight and he would fight it.
The stonemason had carved a small panorama at the base of the inscription. A stream flanked by a roughly carved willow and leaping from the water were several fish. Harry couldn’t understand this flight of fancy on the part of the mason but he had to accept it was a pretty scene. From high above him a bird screeched and he looked up. The sky was clear, nothing scarring the bright blue. His green eyes searched the graveyard, unsettled by the sound of the bird’s cry, but he could detect no movement other than the occasional nod of a tree. Looking back to the inscription he wondered who had made the decision about what would go on there. It was very similar to the other inscriptions and he wondered if his mum and dad had been living as Muggles and if, in death, they had been treated as Muggles just like the other victims?
After a few more minutes staring at the stone he realised there was nothing here for him. His mum and dad were gone and he wouldn’t find them beneath this patch of earth. It had been necessary to come and see this place, but he felt no better or worse than he had before he knew what it looked like. Pulling Remus’ small map from his pocket he looked at the pencil-drawn village. From here he could walk across the village green to the pub, an inn called The Green Man, or he could go directly to his parents’ old house, or rather the place where it had stood. Harry decided he needed fortifying before he went to the place where his parents had died so he gave one last look at his parents’ grave and left to rejoin Arthur and Ron.
They were standing by the car watching each other warily and Harry had the feeling he might have interrupted a father/son argument.
“All right then, Harry?” Arthur asked, placing a paternal arm across Harry’s shoulders. “Can’t have been easy?”
“It wasn’t that bad,” Harry replied, looking to Ron, who gave him a weak grin. “You all right?”
“Yeah, never better,” Ron said. “Did you find it easy enough?”
“It was at the back, with a few newer graves. Wormtail must have enjoyed his work.” He glanced up the road, wondering if the village had recovered from the attack on their house,even after all these years.
“Treacherous git,” Ron said vehemently.
“Now, now, Ron,” Arthur said. “There’s no need for that.”
“Well he bloody well was a treacherous git. If it hadn’t been for him Harry’s mum and dad might still be alive.”
“Ron!” The warning was firm and Ron closed his mouth.
“Fancy going to the pub?” Harry asked. “You’re supposed to be eighteen in the Muggle world but this place looks like the kind of village that wouldn’t ask too many questions.”
“Are you asking me to condone underage drinking?” Arthur asked with a disapproving look. “I hardly think I can do that, Harry, even for you.”
“Well if you think about it, we are of age in the wizarding world. It’s not our fault that the Muggles are a little backward.” The grin that accompanied Harry’s logic persuaded Arthur to relent and they walked across the patch of well-trimmed grass that formed the heart of the village and headed for the whitewashed pub. A sign hung limply above the door with the grizzled face of a man with a crown of leaves on his head. The leaves trailed across his face and, much to Ron’s disgust, shot up his nose and into his mouth.
“That’s horrible,” he said, looking up at the sign in horror. “Who’s he supposed to be?”
“Dunno,” Harry shrugged, unfamiliar with the old magical curiosity.
“In you go then,” Arthur said, holding the door open. Their nostrils were instantly assailed with the smell of stale tobacco and pub cooking.
“Ermm… Exactly how are we going to pay?” Ron asked, knowing that even if any of them had any money on them it would be useless in this place.
“I have some Muggle money,” Harry whispered. “I changed some Galleons while I was in London before the funeral. I had an idea that if I was coming to a Muggle village it might come in useful.
The lounge was almost empty, only a garrulous old man propped up the bar, a pint of bitter sitting on the counter in front of him as he talked to a bored waitress. A middle-aged buxom woman stood behind the bar flicking a cloth over the shelves that contained numerous bottles of whisky. Harry could see her heavily made-up face in the mirrored background to the shelves and he thought she looked like someone his Aunt Petunia would have hated. As the door slammed behind them she turned round, ready to greet one of her regulars and then she stopped short, her mouth a little ‘o’ of surprise.
“Good afternoon, dear lady,” Arthur began graciously. “And what would you recommend we slake our thirst with on this fine day?”
Ron looked at Harry in disbelief. “Why’s he talking like that?” he mouthed. Harry shrugged and watched as the barmaid tried to recover her posture in the face of the charming Arthur Weasley.
“Recommend…oh, er…. Well as a rule we don’t recommend ‘cus our regulars generally know what they’re having.”
“Ah,” Arthur said, momentarily thrown by having to choose something. He racked his brain trying to think of something that sounded normal and eventually pointed to a bottle of Blue Curacao and asked for a pint.
“A pint?” The barmaid’s eyes widened at the prospect of this stranger getting steadily drunk on the vivid spirit.
“It’s all right, Arthur,” Harry said, stepping in to rescue the floundering wizard. “We’ll have three pints of Wadsworth’s 6x.” Harry had seen enough bottles of the heavy beer in the Dursleys’ to know that this would be perfectly acceptable for them to drink in a small pub like this.
The barmaid looked relieved to be given an order she understood and immediately busied herself pulling the pints. Arthur was fascinated by the fruit machine that glittered brightly in the corner, colourful lights announcing it as Monopoly. “Fascinating,” he breathed, wondering what it actually did.
The drinks were slopped onto the bar and Harry handed her a ten-pound note. As expected she didn’t challenge their age and they carried the full glasses across to a table close to the unlit fire. Harry leant back into the upholstery and took a sip of his beer, instantly wishing he could have ordered a Butterbeer. Clearly Ron thought the same thing as he spluttered half of his first mouthful over his father. Arthur was just pleased to be drinking a genuine Muggle drink and sipped at it eagerly, savouring every mouthful.
“So, Harry. We’ll pop round to your mum and dad’s old place and then head off back, unless there’s somewhere else you’d like to go?” Arthur was making steady inroads into his pint and Harry wondered if he ought to tell him it was considerably more alcoholic than Butterbeer.
“No, I just want to see the house and get a feel for the place. I can always come back when this is all over.”
Ron looked doubtful at the confidence in Harry’s voice about the war ever being over but he didn’t say anything, nor did he drink any more of the beer that he thought was the grossest thing imaginable.
“Good, good.” Arthur was quite relieved by this news. He had a great deal of work waiting for him when he got back to London. Molly certainly couldn’t expect him home before midnight. “Goodness this stuff is strong.” He set down the glass on the table. “What does that contraption do?” His head nodded to the fruit machine.
“You put money in it and try to win more,” Harry explained. “It’s a bit like the ‘Chase the Knuts’ games that Florean has in Diagon Alley.” Harry watched as the old man by the bar looked across, waiting for him to avert his eyes, but he didn’t. The man nodded a greeting and Harry smiled.
“I’d love to have a go,” Arthur said wistfully. “But I don’t expect it takes Sickles.”
“Here,” Harry said, getting up and handing him a note. “Get that changed at the bar and you can play.” Without waiting for Arthur to reach into his cloak and give Harry the equivalent Sickles he turned and walked across to the old man by the bar.
“Thought I recognised those eyes.” The man’s voice was gruff with age as he relaxed against the bar. Harry almost got the impression that he had been waiting for this meeting, something in the set of his jaw and the tilt of his chin revealed a stalwart soul who had finally been repaid for his long wait. He tipped his glass against yellowed teeth and drained it of its final dregs.
“Do you?” Harry asked, calling the barmaid across and ordering another pint of whatever it was the stranger was drinking.
“Reckon so. You’d be the young ‘un of that Lily Potter. Never thought we’d see you back here agin but never stopped ‘oping all the same.”
“What do you know about my mother?”
“What do you want to know about your mother?” Shrewd eyes looked him up and down, trying to find something else of Lily besides those green emeralds set in his face. “Didn’t know her for very long but she came to me many a time for advice.”
“Did you know…Did you know what she did for a living?” Harry was unsure whether to ask outright if he knew whether his mum had been a witch.
“I knew she had special abilities,” he said, leaning closer to Harry. “But as for a job. Well, she were your mother… That were ‘er job so far as I could tell.”
Harry felt a little spatter of emotion across his chest at those words and the man nodded. “Aye, she was your mother all right, and a fine one at that. Never knew what she saw in that fella of ‘ers, always away he was, business in London she told me but I knew it were more ‘an that. This is an old village, young master Potter, a very old village. We know more ‘an most about special abilities. My grandfather now, he were born to parents with special abilities but he had none of ‘em. His father were the last in the line that we know of.”
“What’s your name?” Harry asked.
“Albert Gryps,” he said proudly and held out his hand for Harry to shake. This ritual completed Albert began to regard Harry as something of a long lost friend and immediately began to pour forth opinions on many things, from his view of the current happenings in the Muggle world to the deterioration of the quality of the local beer. Harry listened patiently, half-hoping for some more personal recollections of his mother. He glanced at the clock that sat above the bar, a strange timepiece with its face set in the belly of a stuffed carp. It was already gone four and he really needed to get a move on. From the corner that contained the fruit machine he could hear loud yelps of pleasure as Arthur won a cascade of pound coins.
“I don’t suppose, Mr Gryps, that you would be willing to show me where my mother’s house used to stand?” Harry tried to ignore Arthur as he began to gesticulate towards Ron in an effort to get some appreciation of his win.
“I might that,” the old man said. “She’d ‘ave wanted you to come home, you know.”
Harry wasn’t sure he would have referred to Godric’s Hollow as home. He’d only lived there a very short time and couldn’t remember any of it. Albert was already inching himself carefully off the high bar stool and pulling on the battered woollen jacket that covered it. With a hefty grunt that indicated a large degree of effort on his part, the old man then led the way out of the pub. Harry chanced another look at Arthur and Ron; Arthur was completely engrossed with the many-featured Monopoly game and Ron was looking at Harry with a raised eyebrow. Harry mouthed a ‘back in a minute’ at him and slipped from the fusty pub into the cool of the worn out afternoon.
Long-fingered shadows reached across the grass as they walked together across the lush, well-kept grass of the village green. Birds sang in the dusky peace, their chorus heightened by the early evening shadows. One or two net curtains twitched as curious villages paused in their dinner-making routines to observe the stranger in their midst.
“She were ‘appy enough ‘ere,” Albert said, watching the ducks skim the pond in lazy circles. “Used to bring you out and get you to help her feed the ducks. Said you used to eat more bread than them poor birds.”
Harry smiled and wondered if any of those ducks had been fathered by the ones he had fed as a child. “What did she talk to you about?” he asked.
“This ‘an that. Mostly she were just lonely and glad of a friendly ear to listen to her. But she spoke about you and her fears for what might ‘appen if You-Know-Who got ‘is ‘ands on you.”
The sound of Voldemort’s pseudonym tripping so casually of this Muggle’s tongue took Harry by surprise but he allowed the man to continue uninterrupted.
“’Course, when it did ‘appen I was one of the first round there. Saw ‘im leave but couldn’t do a damn thing about it. Never did find out what really ‘appened apart from the fact that your mum and dad died. No one with special abilities left in the village to ask, see.”
They passed a short row of three thatched cottages and turned onto a lane of more modern, mid-twenties cottages. They were constructed from pale stone and traditional slate roofs with neat gardens and picket fences. At first Harry thought there were two sets, three and two, divided by a small public garden and then, with a sinking feeling, he realised why there was a gap in the uniform row.
“Is that it?” His face had become paler as he took in the spot that had seen his mother and father murdered and him left an orphan.
“Aye, lad… That’s it. They never built on it. The owner didn’t think it were right after what ‘ad ‘appened. Mrs Keane on the left there, she looks after the garden, keeps it proper looking.”
They walked up to the fence and Harry stood by the gate, the gate that must have been replaced because surely everything had been blasted away. The roses tangled with holly bushes in a prickly barrier along the edge of the garden while in the middle the last of the marigolds and pansies were beginning to fade and die.
“Only thing left, that is,” Albert said, nodding at the gate. “Destroyed pretty much everythin’ else but left that standing.”
What had before just been a gate now took on another life for Harry. He rested his hand on the latch and imagined his mother’s hand over his, helping him into another part of his life, opening the gate for better exploration of his past. He ran his fingers over the metal and lifted the latch slowly. The gate opened with a smooth well-oiled action and he stepped into the garden.
“She kept it just like this,” Albert explained. “Them’s ‘er roses and ‘olly bushes that she planted when she arrived. They’ve done right well. There’s a stream at the bottom of what were the back garden. Your dad used to take a rod and spend a few hours down there when he were home, which wasn’t often.”
But Harry had seen enough. He knew now that though this had been necessary it was fruitless. He could only feel the vaguest echoes of his mother and no matter how much he stared at the bushes she had planted or the pond where she had fed the ducks with him, he would find nothing of them here beyond softened memories made fuzzy by time. And Albert had been a good companion but the time had come to say goodbye.
“I think I’d better get back to the pub and find my friends,” Harry said, stepping back out of the garden and onto the pavement once more. “Thank you for showing this to me.”
“My pleasure, lad, my pleasure. Any time you want to come back down you just come into that pub and you’ll find me there. If you want to talk about your mother, then that’s where I am.”
Harry smiled his gratitude and was prepared to walk away when Albert stopped him.
“Oh, there were one other thing,” he said, stuffing his grimy hand into one of his coat pockets. “I found that in the garden, after the house went. Thought maybe it was something of theirs that you might want to keep.”
Harry held out his hand and felt something small and metallic drop into his palm. As Albert pulled his hand away a key rested there, small and silver with a crest on the top part of it. The main shaft was highly decorated with the tiniest birds and then it forked into three complex bars at the end. He mumbled his thanks to the old man, not knowing what the key was but pocketing it all the same. With his latest acquisition working its way down into the corner of his pocket he raced back to the pub and to Arthur, who had by now won £124 and was very disappointed that the machine was now empty of money. The barmaid, whose name it transpired was Maisie, was congratulating him heartily and swearing that she had never seen the like of it in all her time in the pub.
“It’s like magic,” she grinned, watching Arthur carefully pocket the shiny golden coins, not noticing the fact that he looked distinctly shifty when she mentioned magic.
Harry hurriedly parted Arthur from his new friend and rallied a bored Ron into action. Within ten minutes they were safely back in the car and driving away from the village, the lonely figure of Albert Gryps watching them leave. As the silver car turned out of sight he saw a black car driving towards him, the occupants shielded from his view by darkened windows. Albert was no fool. He knew what was contained within that car and as it drew ever nearer he stepped smartly into the church of St Neot and waited for the storm to pass.
Evening cascaded around the eaves of Malfoy Manor, the sun slinking gently away from the rancour that stalked the uninhabited walls of the old building. Draco was unhappy, deeply unhappy, and he was quite willing to take it out on his surroundings, although he was somewhat hampered in this by Severus’ insistence that he use no magic. Still, much could be achieved by throwing things around and flooding the occasional bathroom. Draco knew that his behaviour was childish but he didn’t have the will to stop it. If they insisted in treating him like a child then he might as well behave like one.
He was busying himself with the steady unravelling of one of his father’s family tapestries when the door to the study was opened and Severus walked in, a scowl on his face.
“You’ve been gone forever,” Draco whined. “I was beginning to think my luck was in and you’d abandoned me. Anyone could have come by the house while you were gone.”
“Then it is a pity they didn’t,” Severus retorted, not in the mood for Draco’s petulance. “I have more pressing concerns than your entertainment.”
The tapestry was now little more than a shredded pile of thread on the floor and Draco looked with satisfaction at the pin-holed fabric. Serve father right, he thought. That’s if he ever escapes the Dark Lord alive.
“Is that your idea of being productive?” Severus commented, with a disgusted glance at the ruined hanging. “I would have thought you could be better occupied with reading or attending to your mother’s plants.”
Draco gave a laugh and stood up, watching as his former teacher crossed to his father’s desk and opened a drawer. It no longer concerned Draco that Severus seemed fully in control of his destiny and his house. Draco was just biding his time when he could prove to the Dark Lord that he was worthy of being in his service. The first step would be to give Severus Snape the slip and escape from Malfoy Manor and he had decided that tonight was the night. He had correctly judged that the Severus was over-tired, having been out all night and day, and would probably sleep very soundly that night. Draco had considered just walking out of the castle while his guardian was away but knowing his luck he would have run straight into him coming back from whatever mission he had been on.
No, tonight was the night that Draco would make his break for freedom. He couldn’t kill Dumbledore now, but he would go for a prize far greater in the Dark Lord’s eyes. And to make life even easier Severus picked up a sheaf of papers and stalked from the room with an instruction that he not be disturbed until morning. As he closed the door behind him he didn’t see the huge grin that spread across Draco’s face, if he had he might have been tempted to stand watch over the boy all night.