Where Do I Go From Here?

Now, more than ever, Harry felt completely out of place while living at the Dursleys'. As he had promised Dumbledore, he returned to their home one last time, anxiously awaiting the day he would turn seventeen and be free from them forever. When he told them this, Harry never thought he had seen his uncle look so happy.

"And I suppose one of your odd friends will come to collect you, then?" Uncle Vernon asked. "Perhaps that old coot who came into our house uninvited last year?"

Hearing his uncle talk this way about Dumbledore upset him greatly. "Don't you dare talk about him that way! From your information, he's dead, and no, I'll be leaving on my own, thanks."

Harry turned to leave and head upstairs, when his uncle's persistent voice questioned, "How did he die?" There was mere curiosity, but not a sheer shred of sympathy in that voice.

"Don't ask," Harry ground out and headed up the stairs.

Once in his room, he went to the desk that sat in front of the window and gazed outside. The sun was shining brilliantly on the pleasant summer day, and as much as Harry wished to venture outside, he knew that he had to keep his promise to Dumbledore. If there was one thing he had learned this past year, it was that he was truly "Dumbledore's man."

Crossing off another day on the calendar, Harry knew it was yet one day closer to when he would be free of this place. In just two days, he would be seventeen, coming of age in the wizarding world, and he intended to step into that world as a man and do what he needed to do.

Another promise Harry had made had been to visit his friends at the Burrow and attend Bill and Fleur's wedding. Before he left for Godric's Hollow, he would be stopping at the Weasleys' house for a couple of days, but in his heart, he felt that was all the time he could afford there.

The wedding was beautiful, of course, even though Bill had undergone some physical changes since he had been bitten a few weeks back. When the last day of his visit arrived, Harry tried to assure and reassure the Weasleys and Hermione that he would be all right, but leaving the Burrow without their frets and worries was no easy feat. He began to wonder if escaping from his friends would prove more difficult than facing Voldemort in the end.

"Are you sure you don't want us to come with you, Harry?" Hermione asked, a desperate, pleading look in her eyes.

"I at least think I should do this part alone," Harry said softly. "I'm going to be visiting the place where this all started, where my parents were killed and are buried." A distant look crossed his face, but then his green eyes refocused on his friends. "I've never even visited their graves. I feel like this is something I need to do, but alone."

"We understand, Harry," Ginny murmured, taking his hand.

"But you'll keep it touch and let us know when you need us, right?" Ron asked hopefully.

"Of course," Harry replied. "There's still a month until you have to return to Hogwarts... if it opens again."

Forcing himself away from the people who meant the most to him, Harry apparated to Godric's Hollow, not wanting to gaze upon their forlorn faces any longer. He had luckily passed the apparation test the day right after his birthday, so this made travelling much easier. Also, he had the advantage of being of age now, so using magic was not prohibited.

When he arrived in Godric's Hollow, he noticed a heavy mist hanging in the streets and wondered if this meant the Dementors were breeding somewhere nearby. There was a chill in the air as he set foot toward the relatively small village, noticing that many of the houses were abandoned. As Harry walked cautiously through the cobblestoned street now, he recalled the directions Lupin had given him to where his old house had been, the Potters' home that had been destroyed on the night they had perished.

Harry noticed that the sun was quickly setting and pulled the hood of his robe over his head, not wanting to arouse unwanted eyes. He made a left, then a right, and another right, and then he came to the spot. Standing there, gazing out at the empty lot ahead of him, Harry would have never known a house had once stood there. A field of overgrown weeds was all that filled the area, and as he drew closer, he wondered sadly if any part, no matter how small, of his home remained.

Stepping into the field, the grass brushed against his robe, some of the strands coming up nearly to his waist. Harry kept his eyes on the ground, scanning for something, some small reminder of what he knew had been his home a long time ago. Only dirt and weeds stared back at him.

Deciding there was nothing else here worth seeing, Harry left the spot, feeling too filled with grief and memories he couldn't really remember. He found a bench and sat down. Closing his eyes, he tried to imagine that night, his father dying first, then his mother frantically pleading with Voldemort and dying nonetheless, tried to imagine Sirius coming on his motorbike, only to be turned away by Hagrid, who would have been acting on Dumbledore's orders to take him to the Dursleys.

Harry frowned. He sincerely hoped his would never have to see the Dursleys again and wondered why Dumbledore and Sirius had not survived, but the Dursleys had. Something was horribly unfair about the whole charade, for that was what he felt those memories were.

Clenching his wand, Harry stood up and left for the cemetery. By now, darkness had settled on the land, but Harry didn't care. He was hardly afraid of walking into a normal cemetery at night, especially considering what he had gone through two years ago when Voldemort had risen again.

Searching through the tombstones, it didn't take long before he found two stones marked "James Potter" and "Lily Evans Potter." Side by side, the stones served as a reminder that James and Lily had been laid to rest next to each other sixteen years ago.

"Hi, Mum... Hi, Dad," Harry murmured softly, his voice thick, blinking back the burning sensation in his eyes. "I've finally come to visit you..."

Not that the Dursleys would have ever come here... he thought bitterly.

Reaching out a hand to stroke the smooth surface of the stones, Harry whispered, "I hope you'd be proud of me. I never asked for any of this, you know... This 'Chosen One' rubbish... To be 'The Boy Who Lived...'"

Allowing his words to trail off into the darkness and become lost, Harry felt suddenly so utterly lost. The hope he had felt right after Dumbledore's death was quickly dissipating, vanishing seemingly into the breeze encircling his lone form.

"Where do I go from here?"