Lost Memories

lxiv. godric's hollows

"I've been thinking. I — I want to go to Godric's Hollow," Harry said, snapping me out of my thoughts.

"Yes," said Hermione. "Yes, I've been wondering that too. I really think we'll have to."

"Did you hear me right?" Harry asked at Hermione's compliance.

"Of course I did. You want to go to Godric's Hollow. I agree, I think we should. I mean, I can't think of anywhere else it could be either. It'll be dangerous, but the more I think about it, the more likely it seems it's there."

"Er — what's there?" asked Harry.

"Well, the sword, Harry," I laughed slightly. "Dumbledore must have known you'd want to go back there, and I mean, Godric's Hollow is Godric Gryffindor's birthplace —"

"Really? Gryffindor came from Godric's Hollow?"

"Harry, did you ever even open A History of Magic?"

"I might've opened it, you know, when I bought it... just the once..."

"Well, as the village is named after him I'd have thought you might have made the connection," said Hermione.

"Harry, it makes sense," I exclaimed. "Godric's Hollow, Godric Gryffindor, Gryffindor's sword; don't you think Dumbledore would have expected you to make the connection?"

It had taken us a full week before Hermione allowed us to go. She was determined that we would go only after we had ensured that we had the best disguises possible; a few muggle hairs later and a few Apparation and Disapparation lessons from under the Cloak together, Hermione agreed to make the journey.

Opening my eyes, I saw we were standing in a snowy lane under a dark blue sky, in which the night's first stars were already glimmering feebly. Cottages stood on either side of the narrow road, Christmas decorations twinkling in their windows. A short way ahead of them, a glow of golden streetlights indicated the centre of the village.

"All this snow!" Hermione whispered beneath the cloak. "Why didn't we think of snow? After all our precautions, we'll leave prints!"

"Let's take off the Cloak," said Harry, and when Hermione looked frightened, "Oh, come on, we don't look like us and there's no one around."

Harry stowed away the Cloak under his jacket and led us down the road. From outside their houses, I saw people laughing and eating dinner in their warm houses without a care in the world.

"Harry, I think it's Christmas," Hermione said.

"Is it?"

We had completely lost track of the date; we hadn't seen a newspaper for weeks now.

"I'm sure it is," I said. "They... they'll be in there, won't they? Your mum and dad? I can see the graveyard behind it."

"Harry, look!"

Hermione was pointing at the war memorial. As we had passed it, it had transformed. Instead of a pillar covered in names, there was a statue of three people: A man with untidy hair and glasses, a woman with long hair and a kind, pretty face, and a baby boy sitting in his mother's arms. Snow lay upon all their heads, like fluffy white caps. It was Harry's parents with him as a baby.

"C'mon," Harry whispered sadly.

The singing grew louder as we approached the church. People inside sang lovely Christmas Carols, while the three of us walked past the squeaky gate and into the graveyard.

Hermione pushed it open as quietly as possible and we edged through it. On either side of the slippery path to the church doors, the snow lay deep and untouched. Behind the church, row upon row of snowy tombstones protruded from a blanket of pale blue that was flecked with dazzling red, gold, and green wherever the reflections from the stained glass hit the snow. Keeping our hands closed tightly on our wands, Harry moved toward the nearest grave.