Journey to Godric's Hollow

Harry sighed sadly. He didn't like how afraid of him Petunia had become...he found it kind of hurtful, to be honest. He'd never done anything to hurt her...he'd set Vernon's belongings on fire a few times, and had pushed the larger man back when he tried to whip him with his belt, but he'd always made sure not to harm his Aunt...not that it did any good. Honestly, he'd never treated any of the Dursleys half as bad as they treated him; he didn't understand why they seemed to find his behaviour unexpected and ill-deserved.

"Expelliarmus."

The knife flew out of Aunt Petunia's hand and into his, causing the woman to pale drastically.

"I didn't mean to startle you, Aunt Petunia. I just have a little request."

"Wh-wh-what kind of request?" she stammered, eyes trained on the knife he now held loosely in his own hand.

"I...want to go visit my parents...their grave."

The woman's eyes widened. "Their grave?" she whispered.

Harry nodded.

"Th-that's...a long drive."

"I know."

"F-f-four hours."

"I know it's a lot to ask, but it's...really important to me. I just need a ride. You don't even need to leave the car. And I promise I won't bother you after this."

The woman exhaled shakily. "When?"

"Now?"

She nodded slowly. "Fifteen minutes."

Harry smiled gratefully. Things were so much easier with Aunt Petunia.

________________________________________

"Pink elephants and lemonade, dear Jessie

Hear the laughter running through the love parade..."

Two hours later, Harry was sitting in the back seat of Aunt Petunia's car reading reading The Art of War whilst Madonna's dulcet tones emanated from the speakers, caressed by static. Neither Harry nor his Aunt were listening to the vaguely glitching radio, so it was little more than ambient noise, doing away with the need for Harry and his Aunt to exchange words. She was no doubt still terrified by their earlier conversation, and he wasn't going to apologize, though he did still feel really terrible about the whole thing.

"Candy kisses and a sunny day, dear Jessie

See the roses raining on the love parade..."

Tom had been very amused, of course; his friend did not even try to stifle his pleased smirk when Harry remorsefully discussed the exchange with him. It was always like this with Tom; the things that brightened the days of the dark lord simultaneously made Harry feel incredibly guilty, which made Harry's desire to impress him very counterproductive in his ongoing quest to maintain his mental health.

"Close your eyes and you'll be there

Where the mermaids sing as they comb their hair..."

He yawned, sleep starting to creep on the edges of his vision.

"Like a fountain of gold you can never grow old

Where dreams are made, your love parade..."

His life was so complicated.

________________________________________

Tom gripped his yew and phoenix feather wand in his right hand, relishing in the way the dark magic danced about it like decadent static.

The man's face was cold, eyes dull and dead. They were his eyes, set upon a face that was nearly his face, aged by a few decades. A lesser man might have been been cowed, staring into the face of his dead father, but Tom was not.

Tom Riddle Senior was dead. Tom Riddle Junior had killed him. That was all. There was nothing more to it.

Harry jerked awake, tears in his eyes.

________________________________________

Godric's Hollow was a quaint little village, Harry observed as he wandered through the streets unnoticed – Tom had insisted that he use the disillusionment charm as soon as he left Aunt Petunia's car. Apparently there were quite a few witches and wizards in the area, and they couldn't afford to be recognized.

The cobbled streets and stone buildings alluded to a distant past, deeply contrasting the asphalt and cookie-cutter houses of Little Whinging and stirring Harry's imagination in the most eerie of ways. Did his parents once wander the same path he was on?

He smiled at the thought, staring lazily at the sky. The sun was obscured by clouds, that day, casting a vague and subtle glow on the medieval architecture. Godric's Hollow, he thought, could be described as...subdued - an old place full of old stories kept by old people. It was peaceful, quiet, and he rather liked it.

There was nothing particularly special about the place, and Harry was about to cease his explorations and go straight to the Potters' cottage when he noticed something odd in the town square - a strange shape standing in the centre of street, the air about it warped with a delicate sort of magic.

As he approached, it became clear to him that he was looking at a statue – of a man and a woman embracing, with a young infant smiling contently in their arms. The man looked eerily familiar, with messy hair and glasses framing his softly smiling face; there was something about the height of his cheekbones and the shape of his nose and chin...

...that looked very much like what he saw in the mirror every day.

Harry's eyes widened in shock as he ran toward the statue.

"Mum...dad..."

Unbidden, tears gathered in his eyes – was this what they looked like? Were these people his family?

He felt a deep aching in his chest, and suddenly he became very aware of Tom's presence in his mind. Tom...Lord Voldemort, the man who murdered these happy people in their home. This was his family, right here, in front of him, this stone monument of what had been taken from him remembering them while he did not.

It was war, Harry knew that. It was nothing personal – Tom didn't do personal. But it still hurt. And had been times lately – like now – when he could not help but wonder if he was a bad person for forgiving the man that took his parents away.

.....

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