Visits to a Graveyard

Bingblot

Rating: G
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 12/02/2007
Last Updated: 12/02/2007
Status: completed

There was something about the young man that attracted my notice more than usual, that made me think he was no ordinary young man visiting a graveyard. And I was right. One-shot.

Chapters

1. Visits to a Graveyard

1. Visits to a Graveyard

Disclaimer: Harry Potter doesn’t belong to me because if it did, I wouldn’t have to worry about things like paying my bills.

Author’s Note: An odd little fic where I rather tried experimenting with point of view. For gracie_in_greek- happy belated birthday!

Visits to a Graveyard

There was something about the young man that attracted my notice more than usual.

I will admit that I am interested in all the visitors who come to the Godric’s Hollow graveyard simply because there are so few of them. Godric’s Hollow was ever a quiet little town, not much excitement. Although there was some excitement, quite some time ago, it must be nearly 20 years now, when a nice, quiet young couple who had come to live in Godric’s Hollow just months before were found dead in their little cottage and their baby son, about a year old at the time, was nowhere to be found. It was later rumored that someone had seen some strangers go into the house and one of them, who, according to gossip, was the size of an oak tree, came out with a bundle wrapped in cloth which may have been the baby. They had been a nice couple, the Potters, from what I saw of them before they came to join me here in the graveyard. Very quiet, though, kept to themselves for much of the time and seemed very leery of strangers.

That was a sad business, those two nice young folk to be found murdered like that. But other than that, Godric’s Hollow has been very quiet, the same quiet town as it was in my time.

I am—or I should say, I was, when I was alive, the vicar of the little parish of Godric’s Hollow and now, that I am dead, I still linger in the graveyard.

It is a peaceful place, my graveyard. After life’s fitful fever, all the people buried there sleep well.

I have chosen to linger here, where I used to live and where fond memories still linger. Not as a ghost. Oh, no, you mustn’t imagine I am a ghost. I am merely one of the spirit world, invisible to all those who are living but sometimes sensed by a very few who are gifted enough.

And for the most part, I linger here in the graveyard where it is quiet. Only on occasion do I venture into the village itself. No, it has gotten too busy and noisy in my little village, what with automobiles and the young people of these days roaming around.

But to continue, the young man interested me more than the other visitors.

You may think that I am a hopeless busybody but do consider that a spirit’s existence is very mundane, no excitement and no real variety. The only real interest in my existence for the past half-century since I died has been in the visitors to my graveyard.

And this young man, as I have said, interested me.

He came alone, which is rather unusual in and of itself. Most people, I have found, come in pairs, as if they need the presence of another person to dispel any ghostly presence. He was a good-looking fellow, in his own way. His hair was a terrible mess and was the despair of many a comb, I daresay, from its appearance. He wore glasses and looked, for the most part, like any other young fellow, except there was a certain air about him, rather of melancholy, some vague shadow hovering over him. Perhaps I am fanciful but so I thought.

That hair… I thought that hair and something about the features looked familiar to me and I remembered why when I saw where he went. He looked almost remarkably like that unfortunate young man, Mr. Potter, when he’d lived in Godric’s Hollow. Except, I noticed, as I drifted nearer to him as he stopped in front of the Potters tombstone in the corner, he had very brilliant green eyes—eyes which I seemed to remember were the same as those of the poor young Mrs. Potter. There was also a curious thing: a scar, in the shape of a lightning bolt on his forehead.

He must be Mr. and Mrs. Potter’s baby son, the one who had disappeared that night of his parents’ death. And now, he was returning to visit his parents’ grave.

It is a fortunate thing, as a spirit, to be able to listen to people’s conversations with complete impunity. It cannot be eavesdropping, you see, for we really have not much choice in the matter. And, after all, we spirits are the most discreet of creatures by necessity.

So I had no qualms about drifting until I was quite close and had a clear view of this young Mr. Potter’s face.

That air of melancholy was quite noticeable, more pronounced when he stared down at his parents’ tombstone, for understandable reasons. But it was more than just the normal sort of melancholy that accompanies a graveyard visit. No, I would venture to say that this young Mr. Potter had not had an entirely easy or happy life. His air spoke of some worry that had aged him beyond his years.

He sighed before he spoke, quite softly and quite naturally. “Hello, Mum and Dad. It’s me. I wanted to let you know, though I guess you might already know, that I did it. I managed to defeat Voldemort.”

He paused, while I wondered who this Voldemort was. Not a nice fellow, I’d venture. Voldemort—what a name, designed to strike fear into people’s hearts. Some trumped-up fool trying to be a great evil villain, I suppose.

“So it’s over now. It’s all over and, well, we survived, me, Hermione and Ron.” His expression and his tone had softened when he mentioned those names and he went on, more softly. “Hermione—I- she- I wish you could meet her. She’s amazing, you know, she’s helped me so much and I know I couldn’t have done it without her. I- I think I love her, Mum, Dad. No, I do love her. She- she’s everything to me. I just wish you could meet her. I think you’d like her. Remus says she reminds him of you in some ways, Mum. If- if you talk to Sirius, tell him—tell him I’m okay and it’s over now. And- and tell him that Remus is happy. I think he’d want to know that. Tell him about Hermione, too—he liked her and he can tell you about her, too.” He shifted on his feet and then finished, “Anyway, Mum and Dad, I just wanted to tell you that it’s over. You don’t have to worry about me anymore. I- I’ll visit again one day, I promise.”

He stood there another few minutes, silent, before he turned and left.

I knew he would be an interesting one to listen to! A nice young fellow, I thought, caring too, from the way he remembered to mention that Sirius and the news about Remus, whoever he was. And his expression when he spoke of his Hermione—well, it was enough to make even my old heart seem younger, remember spring days and the smiles of my dear wife, Elizabeth. Ah, young love…

Only there was more than the usual intensity of feeling when a young man is talking about his beloved. It was not the blind passion of infatuation I had heard and seen in young Mr. Potter. No, it had been more than that. Intense, yes, but also deep and true. It was not simply young love; no, it was nothing more and nothing less than real love, strong and faithful and lasting. Somehow, this young Mr. Potter and his Hermione had apparently been through enough that even at their young age, they had found this true love, in spite of their youth.

I found myself wondering—(I have gotten sentimental in my years as a spirit)—whether young Mr. Potter and his Hermione would be wise enough and fortunate enough to realize what they had and make a match of it.

I was to find out a few years later…

Young Mr. Potter returned, older now by several years, but there was another difference too which I noticed the moment I saw him. That air of melancholy which had so struck me before was somehow lessened. He was happy now, in a way he had not been before. Happy and at peace.

It was a sight to make any old spirit’s heart lift.

“Hello, Mum and Dad. I wanted you to know, needed to tell you, actually. I’m going to marry Hermione. In less than a week, actually. I asked her months ago and she said yes. She said yes—I still can’t believe it sometimes, that she chose me, loves me—but she does… It will be a relatively small ceremony, in spite of the nonsense the press and the Ministry has tried to insist on, but I didn’t want to make a huge fuss about it and Hermione understood and felt the same. She always does understand somehow. Dad, I- was this what you felt for Mum? I suppose it was; Remus says I’m reminding him of you before you married Mum. I wish you could be there. I love her—really. I know I told you I did before, last time I was here, but I hardly knew how much then. I know better now, understand it more now…” He paused. Until then, his words had been coming fast and excited, his happiness palpable. Now, though, he slowed, his tone softening, becoming tender, more thoughtful. “She- she completes me in some way, I think. And I need her. It’s not that we never fight or disagree—we do. She can be a know-it-all and bossy, but somehow, I even love that about her. Especially as she’s usually right. But she also understands me. She’s been my best friend all my life—and she still is, which is the best part. She’s the person I turn to when I’m sad or angry or upset and she can calm me down.” He paused again and then said, “I’ve always heard about how people get nervous before their weddings, that they start to doubt. I haven’t felt that. I’ve never doubted, really, that I love Hermione and that I want to spend the rest of my life with her. I actually can’t wait.” He smiled to himself an almost-beatific sort of smile, the smile of a young man in love. “Bye, Mum and Dad.”

It is amazing how happy I was for young Mr. Potter. I knew so little of him, after all, just what I’d heard him say to his parents, and yet I found I cared about his fate and I was happy for him. If ever a young man deserved to be happy, I felt, it was young Mr. Potter.

I was only conscious of a very strong curiosity about his fiancée, his Hermione.

You may well imagine my interest when the very next day, in fact, a young woman came to visit and stopped in front of the Potters’ tombstone.

She was quite a pretty young woman, in a pleasant, honest, down-to-earth way. Not one of today’s flighty young things, all make-up and fashions but a decent sort of pretty. Not with the vivid, eye-catching beauty that so often hides an empty head and fools young men-- but a quieter loveliness that is, after all, more appealing to an old spirit as I am. She moved briskly and I could immediately see that this was no ordinary young woman. No, indeed. She was clever, that was clear, but with a softness about her eyes and her mouth which showed a kind heart as well—and loyalty too, if I am any judge of character at all.

“Hello. It’s Hermione. I- I wanted to see you both, to tell you myself that I’m going to marry Harry. I- I wanted to tell you how much I love him. Because I do. I think I always have. I always will love him. And I want to promise that I’ll never leave him. You don’t have to worry about that. I’ll stay with him forever, no matter what happens. I’ll take care of him and comfort him and help him. I’ll be his best friend.” She hesitated for just a moment and then finished quietly, “I love him so much and I know you loved him too so I wanted you to know so you don’t have to worry. He’s not alone; he’ll never be alone again. I’ll stay with him. I promise.”

It would have done any parent’s heart good to hear the intensity in her voice, see the sincerity in her eyes, as she made her vow. It was a vow. Mr. Potter’s Hermione was as fully committed to him and to their relationship as made their actual wedding vows almost redundant. I have seen and heard enough in both my life and in my years as a spirit to recognize commitment and hers was unmistakable.

She and Mr. Potter—Harry as I now knew his name was—made a fitting pair, a couple to warm anyone’s heart, so true, so devoted to each other, so steadfast in their love.

I have performed many wedding ceremonies in my life as Godric’s Hollow’s vicar but none, I will venture to say, which bodes to be as long and happy as Mr. Potter’s and his Hermione’s. And I will confess—once a vicar, always a vicar—that before she left, I took the opportunity to bless her and Mr. Potter’s marriage as if, indeed, I were to be the one performing the ceremony and they had just been married.

Those whom love has joined together, let no one put asunder.

~~

It was some time before Mr. Potter visited again.

He looked much the same as before except his air was quite different, more mature now, settled. He had that indefinable air which separates a young fellow from a man, that air of self-possession (the only way I can describe it) which distinguishes those men who are married (that is, if the young man is any sort of decent fellow at all, and true to his wife.) And I could see immediately that my predictions had been quite true. Mr. Potter was very happily married; the old air of melancholy was gone entirely. Indeed, on this particular visit, he looked quite—uplifted was the only word I could think of.

“Mum and Dad, you have a grand-daughter! We’ve named her Emily and she’s beautiful, absolutely perfect. She was born two days ago and she and Hermione are both doing well. I wanted to tell you both. I cannot stay long; I’m due back at St. Mungo’s soon. I’ve barely left the room in the past two days. It’s amazing what it feels like. Amazing and frightening, too, what it’s like to be a father, to know that this tiny baby is mine. I- I’ve never felt anything like it.” He paused, his green eyes quite glowing with love and tenderness and protectiveness. His voice, which had been exuberant, softened, sobered, as he went on, more slowly. “Also, I- it’s made me realize some things I never quite understood before, not completely. And I wanted to tell you, Mum and Dad. Now- looking at Emily—I know that I’ll do anything for her, to keep her safe. I thought I would do anything for Hermione—and I would, it’s true. But this, what I feel for Emily, is different. Not stronger, really, but different. It- it’s overwhelming. But I understand now, in a way I never really did before, what it meant that you gave your lives for me.” His voice dropped at those last words until they were barely audible. “And I wanted to say, Mum and Dad, thank you. I- I never really thanked you before and I know that I don’t really need to, in a sense. You- you couldn’t have done anything less just as I wouldn’t do anything less for Emily, if I had to. I understand that now. Thank you, Mum and Dad, for saving me. For watching over me, because I know now you must have, you probably still are. I wanted you to know. You don’t have to worry anymore, though. I’m happy now. I love Hermione more every day, it seems, and now, with Emily, I just—I never knew it was possible to be this happy. But I am.” He added, much more quietly, more to himself now, “I am.”

And then I sensed a presence nearby. Other spirits.

I looked up to see four figures. One, an old man with a long, white beard, nodding and smiling his approval at young Mr. Potter. Another, a younger man, also smiling and beaming at young Mr. Potter. And lastly, the only two figures I recognized: Mr. James Potter and Mrs. Lily Potter, young Mr. Potter’s parents, who were also smiling at their son.

Young Mr. Potter did look quite remarkably like his father, I thought vaguely.

The old man’s eyes met mine and he inclined his head in a gesture of greeting, which I returned, suddenly knowing that whoever the old man was, he was a man to be respected.

Mr. James and Mrs. Lily came closer to their son, embracing him as only spirits can—young Mr. Potter would have felt it only as a warm, gentle breeze, perhaps been conscious of a sense of being loved.

All four drifted along beside him as he walked slowly out of the graveyard until the edge of it.

I heard them murmur, to each other, “Harry and Hermione—and little Emily and their other future children, will do very well. Our work here is done.”

And so saying, they left to return to the land of the spirits, to rest and to bide their time.

And I—well, I will remain in my graveyard, listening to the stories of all those who come to visit, listening as I did so often in my life. But I confess I think I will always retain a soft spot for young Mr. Harry Potter and his Hermione.

~The End~