The Cemetery at the Hollow

It was a still summer morning at the Weasley house. Ron sat at the table, casually skimming the Daily Prophet, while Hermione finished making breakfast. Harry strolled into the kitchen just as the eggs landed on the plate that had been set out for him. "Mornin'," he said sleepily.

"Morning, Harry," said Hermione with a smile. Harry wasn't too keen on smiles in the morning, especially this morning, but from Hermione he accepted it.

"We'll get started right after breakfast," said Ron, his tone unusually serious and sounding a bit strange and flat in the light, airy kitchen. Harry just nodded and tucked into his eggs. It was one of those mornings that nobody seemed to know what to do with, as if they were all still working through the last vestiges of sleep. There was more to this particular morning, however, and the kitchen, unaccustomed as it was to such tension, began to seem oppressive to Harry, Ron and Hermione. They all felt the same relief upon stepping out into the sunshine, though none of them could have said exactly why.

They took the car, a near-double of Arthur Weasley's old Ford Anglia (which, as far as they knew, still prowled the wilds of the Forbidden Forest). Since his retirement from the Ministry, Arthur had taken to spending every spare moment in what he termed his "Muggle Workshop." Ron often joked that it sounded like he was experimenting with actual Muggles, rather than just their artifacts, but he'd quieted up when Arthur presented him with the car. He had always, somewhat secretly, wanted one.

On this occasion the car did not fly, but drove rather solemnly toward its destination. Harry sat in the backseat, staring out the window at the passing scenery and registering none of it. The trip took rather a long time.

They pulled into the small village of Godric's Hollow in the early afternoon. After making a brief stop for refreshment at the Fat Cat Pub, they continued until they reached their destination, which was so far outside of town it was almost hidden in the deep countryside.

The words "GODRIC'S HOLLOW CEMETERY," half obscured by overgrown branches, were arched in ancient and tarnished silver over the entryway. They drove through in silence, following the rutted dirt road until Ron found what they were looking for. He pulled over and killed the engine. "We're here," he said unnecessarily; yet somehow it seemed necessary, like a ritual in a rite of passage.

Silently, the group of three approached a small cluster of graves and stood before them. Ron put his arm around Hermione, and she put hers around Harry.

"We thought it was time that you saw this, son," said Ron in a small voice.

The first grave read,

JAMES HAROLD POTTER

BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER

COURAGE IS THE MEASURE OF A MAN.

The second,

LILY EVANS POTTER

BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER

A LIGHT THAT WILL NEVER GO OUT.

And there in the afternoon shadow of Lily's grave stood a plain yet well-chosen marker of solid marble, topped by a small carving of the Gryffindor lion and inscribed,

HARRY JAMES POTTER

HIS DEEDS WILL LIVE FOREVER

Eleven-year-old Harry Weasley stood there feeling many things. He felt some sadness, of course, even though he had never known the great man who had been his namesake; a little fear, because it was his first visit to a cemetery and this particular cemetery was a rather creepy introduction; and finally, a surge of bitterness that he fought to keep down because he knew it was wrong, especially now, to be feeling such a thing.

His father's voice, still unnaturally quiet, continued. "You've heard many great things about Harry Potter I'm sure, son. Not only from your mother and me and your grandparents and aunt and uncles but from people you don't know, people Harry didn't even know. You will hear much more, I am sure, when you start at Hogwarts this fall. Hopefully, some of it will even be true." He paused here, as though trying to think of what to say, even though he had been rehearsing this moment in his mind for as long as he could remember. Eleven years, to be exact.

"What you may have guessed is that Harry Potter was the best friend, besides your mother, of course, that I will ever have." Here Hermione gave each of their hands a squeeze. "But only by bringing you here can I show you, I think, what he was really like." Young Harry glanced up in astonishment. His father was clearly crying. "I'm not mourning the Great Harry Potter, you see, son? I'm mourning my friend, Harry. Oh, he was far from perfect, but he was still the best man I've ever known. And do you realise, to the day he died, he never knew it? He was never the Great Harry Potter in his mind, so how could he be to anyone who truly knew him?

He was funny and brave and decent. It wouldn't have occurred to him to judge someone by how much money they had, or what kind of people they came from. That's how he and I and your mum became friends, you see. I was a poor Weasley in second-hand robes and your mother was Muggle-born, something which was often looked down upon in those dark days... still is, in some circles..." A look Harry had never seen on his father's face appeared there, ever so briefly. It was replaced quickly by a fond smile. "He was also as stubborn and thick as a gnome sometimes, and reckless to the point of foolishness. Not that we weren't right there with him, of course." He glanced at his wife. "Of course, your mother usually needed some persuading to set down her homework."

"Honestly, Ron," she protested, but she couldn't help smiling a bit at the memory. "And those... adventures were almost always for a greater cause than Harry's own. To help, or even save, a friend. He saved the life of your aunt Ginny when she was a little girl. He saved your Grandfather Weasley, and your father and me probably more times than we even realised. Not that I approved of him taking it all on his shoulders, but..." she sighed. "That was Harry."

"So you see then, Harry," Ron continued, serious again, "why I might have named my only son after such a man? Such a friend? And why I want you, of all people, to understand what he was really like?"

"I- I suppose so, Dad," Harry said, quite unsure of what else to say.

Ron looked squarely into the face of his son. "Is there something you'd like to say, Harry?" His tone was gentle.

"Well, Dad, it's..." he struggled to get the words out. "It's just a lot of pressure, isn't it?"

Ron looked as though he'd been punched in the stomach. "Oh, Son, no, no..." He looked helplessly at his wife.

"Harry Arthur Weasley, we do not expect you to be Harry just because you're named for him!" Hermione looked angry, but whether at Harry or Ron or herself, Harry didn't know. A second later she scooped him up in a hug, so he guessed it wasn't him. "Oh Harry, I'm so sorry!" she cried, stroking her son's hair. "Have we been selfish? We just wanted you to know... to understand..."

"No, Mum, it's okay, really..." Harry just wanted his parents to stop crying in a cemetery. He wanted to go home, and think about Quidditch and his birthday party the next day... "My birthday," he said, his words muffled by his mother's shoulder.

Hermione released him, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief she kept in her robe pocket. "What about your birthday, dear?"

"Well... it's today, isn't it? But we always celebrate it the day after."

"Well, Harry, when you were first born... while that was the finest day of our lives, of course... we had a hard time celebrating on this day. I suspect you know why from looking at this grave." Ron looked down, his expression unreadable.

"Yeah... it's his birthday as well."

"I think, after today, we will no longer be celebrating your birthday on August first. Does that sound like a good plan to you, Harry?"

Harry cleared his throat. "Yeah, Dad, I'd like that. Maybe - er, maybe we could celebrate for both of us. Me and... Harry."

Hermione made a sound that could only be described as a sob of joy. "That would be lovely, Harry. Really." She sent Ron a look that Harry was unable to decipher.

"Your mother and I think that just by being the kind, funny - and sometimes horribly stubborn- boy you've always been, you are more like Harry Potter than you know. And that is why we brought you here today, Son. No reason but that."

Harry smiled a little, and sensing they were about to leave, looked once more at the grave.

HARRY JAMES POTTER

HIS DEEDS WILL LIVE FOREVER

Harry felt a chill run up his spine at reading these words, but not an unpleasant one. It was as though he had been reacquainted, at last, with an old friend. He knew he would never meet this friend, but that was okay, too, because maybe part of him did live on; maybe even, a little bit, inside of him. And that was just, well... cool, actually.

"Let's go home," Hermione said, again putting her arm around Harry.

As they walked to the car, Ron said, "There's a Chudley Cannons game on WWN tonight, if I'm not mistaken... and perhaps you could open one of your gifts..."

"Ron, he has only one month left to study before Hogwarts term begins!"

"One month and one day," Ron corrected.

"Ron..."

"Dear, this is not a day for studying," said Ron firmly. "There's plenty of time..."

The sound of his parents' familiar argument was oddly comforting to Harry. He let their voices wash over him as they began their journey back home.

Behind them the cemetery lay peaceful and still, and, had Harry looked back, he would have not found it creepy at all.