by Cindy
Blinding sunshine pierced the August morning as insects’ buzzing and birds’ twittering greeted the new day. This nice, quiet neighborhood street hummed with these sounds of summer and much more: children squealing excitedly in back yards, splashing through sprinklers where the shouts of football and rugby could be heard quite clearly. No one noticed the tall, raven-haired young man who walked in the gutter. Where he had come from, no one would have been able to say as he had just appeared out of thin air. He stepped out immediately with purpose, past well-kept lawns and cars, down towards the end on the lane, a small lot on the outskirts of the little village.
He stopped at the gate as he reached the property and glanced at a shabby, charred sign, overgrown with vines and nettles, which, even through the mess, proudly proclaimed the land to be “Godric's Hollow” with a lion rampant below, so life-like that one would think it to roar at any moment. But it, along with the wooden sign, stood sadly still as young man looked further to the rubble that once was a fine house. A battered fence surrounded the place where wood and stone littered the lot, untouched for almost sixteen years, with the occasional piece of furniture or sink jutting up, severely damaged.
It's odd, Harry thought as he wiped away a dark lock of unruly hair, revealing a lightning-bolt scar, that no one has bothered to clear it away. Then he adjusted his round glasses, pushed the gate open, and soldiered on, climbing though the splintered boards, carefully picking through crushed pebbles, and headed for what seemed to be the epicenter of the damage.
"This must be where it happened," he said aloud, quietly. He squatted down and touched his hand to the burned carpet as a single tear trickled down his cheek.
Suddenly, he stood up quickly and whirled on the spot, facing the street. "You can come out now," he shouted. "I heard you two back at that oak tree. I thought I told you to stay away."
As he said this, a young woman with brown hair and a young man with flaming red hair appeared at the gate, as if tearing off a sheet.
"Sorry, Harry. She made me come," said Ron, who was quickly jabbed in the ribs by Hermione.
"You know very well no one should be alone these days! I'm sorry, Harry, but I honestly didn't think it was safe. I thought we could - "
" - come to my side in case I need saving?" snapped Harry.
"And come to be there for you!" she defended. "I think you may need support in one way or another today. No one should do this alone, Harry - no matter what you’ve got to do in the end."
Harry turned and grumbled and continued to explore the remains.
As they all sorted and shifted the materials, Harry discovered bits and pieces of an odd thing here or there and pocketed them. Nothing was of any real importance, just a hairbrush or a couple grimy knuts, but it was worth it to have, just for a while, the only remnants of his parents left.
Then he found something he couldn't have ever imagined. The magic was reeking from it as he approached and he could sense it before he actually saw or touched it. He lifted a blackened shingle and underneath it found a mirror. It seemed to be nothing more than a looking glass, with a beautiful, silver ornate frame that glittered and shined like a beacon in the sunlight.
Somehow in this pile of wreckage where not one thing was spared from destruction, this mirror somehow managed to survive from not only from being cracked, but to be completely whole and polished clean, as if someone had maintained it every day for the entirety of its life. He almost thought one of them had dropped it here by mistake. He cradled it in his hands with reverence as he peered into his reflection. Vivid green eyes stared back as Hermione and Ron came closer to have a better look.
"What is it?" said Ron as he peered over Harry’s shoulder.
"I dunno," said Harry. "Just a mirror, I guess," he finished lamely.
"Just a mirror?" said Hermione incredulously. "Can't you feel the magic coming from this thing? I mean, even a Muggle would know something was dodgy about this."
But Harry didn’t hear her. He had noticed something. He stared at his face in the mirror in absolute disbelief: His scar was gone. His hand raced to his forehead as he felt the faint line against his fingers, but yet he saw nothing but smooth, untouched skin in the mirror. Hermione, who saw him slap his brow, spoke.
“What? Is it your scar? Is he close?" she said in slight panic.
"No, nothing like that,” said Harry, vaguely annoyed. “He knows how to stop that now. Quick, tell me, is my scar still there?"
"What?" said Ron, confused, "Of course it is, Harry. What are you talking about?"
"Look in the mirror!"
He watched their faces widen in surprise as they saw that there was no trace of Harry's scar left anywhere to be found in his reflection.
"What is this?" they all whispered.
“Harry, look,” said Hermione in an awed and slightly frightened voice, as she pointed to an edge of the object.
“That isn’t - no,” breathed Ron. But it was. Engraved upon it as ornately as the frame (it nearly blended in) were two words - a name: