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Harry almost wished he’d taken Ron and Hermione up on their offer to come with him, now that the shadowy end of the street was in view. He tugged the collar of his shirt and adjusted his tie, unsure why he’d got dressed up to visit his parents’ house. And graves. Alone.
Merlin, what an idiot he’d been to think he could do this.
He wanted to pull his wand and Apparate away, to return later with support, but shook himself out of it. If he bawled like a baby over his parents, he didn’t want Ron and Hermione to see. Not after reassuring them time and again that he’d worked through the trauma with his Mind Healer and was living his life again.
The row of houses on the lane looked brighter than he remembered, but his last visit to Godric’s Hollow had been years ago, in the dead of winter. Now, on the summery eve of his twenty-second birthday, the sun shone brightly and birds sang merrily in the trees. It made it easier to traverse the last bit and tentatively reach for the gate in front of the house.
The sign rose up, just like before. Only it didn’t have graffiti all over it this time.
On this spot, on the night of 31 October 1981, Lily and James Potter lost their lives. Their son, Harry, remains the only wizard ever to have survived the Killing Curse.
This house has become a memorial to all those that lost their lives in the wars against Tom Riddle, as a reminder of the violence that tore the wizarding world apart.
Tickets may be purchased at the gate house to your right
Tickets? What the fuck?
Harry looked up at the house and saw the same semi-destroyed cottage he remembered from years ago. The right side of the top floor still had a hole blasted through it, but now the shimmery glow of protective wards covered the empty space. The gardens spread around the house had a neat, well-cared for look in the colourful array of flowers in full bloom and the trimmed lawn. No weeds and nettles that Harry remembered from before.
He tried opening the gate but it wouldn’t budge. The three unlocking spells he knew had no effect. Did it open last time? They’d been interrupted by Bathilda Bagshot and Harry couldn’t remember if the gate opened or not. He may as well investigate this ticket nonsense, if he wanted to see the house.
Ugh, his own house. Unbelievable.
The ‘gate house’ was a lofty title for what amounted to little more than a large garden shed blocking the driveway. The well-lit space had shelves along the walls and a long counter near the back wall. Someone knelt on the floor in the corner, speaking into the tiniest fireplace Harry had ever seen.
Someone with an attractive arse in worn jeans. He shook off his weird leering at the unknown man and took a closer look at the shelves while he waited for the floo call to end. They were packed with mugs, notepads, postcards, shot glasses, key chains, t-shirts, and a slew of other junk Harry didn’t pause to identify. All of it had ‘Potter House Memorial’ emblazoned in elegant script, along with pictures of the house and grounds.
What the fuck?
“I understand your reluctance,” he heard the kneeling man sigh, “but I don’t have permits or space for apparitions yet. The wards just aren’t set up for it and the neighbours are largely muggle. You’ll have to arrive by Knight Bus or choose muggle transportation. And perhaps while you’re here you’d like to donate to the warding funds so they can be updated for your next visit.” A lengthy pause and then, “Yes, thank you. Please let me know if I can be of further service.”
With another sigh, the man pulled out of the floo, dusting off his dirty jeans as he stood. “My apologies for the wait,” he said as he turned, “How can I—Harry Potter!”
“Malfoy? What the fuck? What are you doing here at my parents’ house?!”
Draco Malfoy, wearing dirty muggle jeans and a stained t-shirt. Draco Malfoy, taking floo calls about visitors. Draco Malfoy, profiting off the war? And Harry's trauma in particular!
The absolute fucker.
"What is going on here?!"
Malfoy tugged nervously at his t- shirt. "W-welcome to the P-potter House Memorial—"
"Cut the bullshit Malfoy, and explain what is going on!"
"It's a war memorial," Malfoy said, gesturing in the direction of the house. "As is plainly stated."
"Yeah, I got that part. Explain to me why you're profiting off the worst years of my life!"
Unexpectedly, Malfoy laughed. "Oh we're definitely not profiting! No, the entrance fee is nominal at best—just a knut per person—and even the merchandising income and grant money barely cover our expenses each month."
Harry covered his face to smother his frustrated yell. "Malfoy, you fucking lunatic! What are you doing here?!"
"Oh well… I came here, right after… everything. For closure, I guess. And the state of things was just appalling."
Harry remembered the rundown look of the house all those years ago. He nodded curtly.
"I had to chase off a couple of snogging goth teens," Malfoy continued, rolling his eyes. "And then the occasional vandal. And I started pulling a few weeds, neatening the garden, you know, and…" He shrugged. "I don't know, here we are."
"Here we are? That's what you're… You're really running a war memorial in my parents' house?"
"Erm, well, yes." He crossed to a side door Harry hadn't noticed. "I've been renovating as funds become available. Would you like to see it?"
Instantly Harry bristled. "I'm not paying an entrance fee to get into my own house!"
Malfoy laughed again, only this time it was small and nervous. "No, of course not! It's just to keep track of the number… You know what? It doesn't matter. Come this way."
Harry followed Malfoy out the door and up a neat gravel path to the house.
"We don't actually open for another hour, so you'll have the place to yourself. Unless you'd like me to accompany you?" At Harry's sour look, Malfoy nodded. "Of course. In that case, I'll be in the garden, cleaning up my tools. Erm… let me know if you need anything.”
Rolling his eyes, Harry brushed past Malfoy and into the house. Before he came to Godric’s Hollow, he’d prepared himself for a rundown, weathered house that had likely been ransacked and vandalised.
Instead he found a tidy sitting room with several waiting room style chairs and small tables. On the tables were pamphlets about the history of the house for guests to read. Harry glanced over it and decided to pocket one to read later. He moved to the fireplace where he found a line of framed Potter family photos. These must be his grandparents, and that one was probably his father at around ten years old. When he tried to pick up the picture for a closer look, it stuck fast to the mantle. None of his charms could free it. Annoyed all over again, he turned his attention elsewhere.
Just like any museum, there were photos on the walls of each room, small placards of information, and also shadow boxes of personal items and memorabilia from both war periods. He learned more about his parents and their friends during his walk through the house than in the rest of his twenty-two years put together. On several walls were ‘coming soon’ photos describing upcoming plans for displays.
Outside his nursery door, he found another sign.
In this room, Harry Potter survived the first of two Killing Curses. It has been reconstructed as it was when Tom Riddle attacked in 1981 and may not be suitable for all visitors. Please watch your step and proceed with caution.
On that ominous note, he pushed open the heavy door, squinting at the bright sunshine that shone through the shattered walls and gaping roof. Broken bits of shingles, walls, and windows littered the floor. When Harry went to kick the debris aside, he found that like the photos on the mantle downstairs, it did not move.
His eyes were drawn immediately to the cot and the blast radius around it, particularly a large space suspiciously free of debris right in front of the cot. He knelt down and touched the empty space, knowing it was where his mother’s body had fallen.
Logically Malfoy must have had to clean the room at least a little. He’d mentioned graffiti, and surely the ravages of time and weather had damaged the structural elements. But Harry could well believe it had looked mostly like this on that terrible night. Overcome, he turned away from the cot to leave the room.
But there on the wall was yet another display. A wand. A painfully familiar hawthorn wand in a glass case.
He didn’t pause to read the placard beneath it. He didn’t want to know what Malfoy had to say about the wand that killed Voldemort for good. Instead, he ran down the stairs and out the front door, needing the blue sky and fresh air without the house’s protective wards around him.
Gasping for air, he fell to his knees in the grass, trying to calm himself as his Mind Healer had taught him. It was over and he was free. Blue skies. Green grass. Birds chirping. It was over and he was free.
“Are you all right?” he heard tentatively behind him.
Harry straightened abruptly, embarrassed at being caught in an emotional moment. “I’m fine,” he said quickly, getting to his feet and brushing his trousers clean.
Malfoy nodded, ignoring the desperate squeak in Harry’s words. “I have tea, if you like. There’s time for a cup before I open for the day.”
He didn’t really want to have tea with Malfoy. And he most certainly didn’t want to be here when visitors arrived. But here was Malfoy, changed into a smart shirt and black trousers, ready for opening, and if he wanted to know more about what was happening, he had no other choice.
“I guess.”
They circled the house to the back garden. Harry took note of the row of hedges, growing as dense as a wooden fence, on all three sides. And the beautiful flower beds arranged around a tiny man-made pond. Several small tables dotted the garden with dainty chairs, presumably for guests to sit at.
Malfoy stopped at a garden shed labelled for employees only. “Erm, it’s a bit cramped but…”
“It’s fine,” Harry interrupted.
The shed only had one tiny window but Malfoy lit a lamp with a lumos spell with an unfamiliar wand. On one side was a single, neatly made bed, with two baskets underneath. Harry could see a sleeve poking out and figured they held Malfoy’s clothes. On the other side was a cramped table with a kettle, two plates, two mugs, and a handful of loose silverware. In the corner was a low shelf with boxes and tins of food.
“You live here?”
“Yes. Sort of. Technically I’m not allowed to but… I didn’t really have anywhere else to go.” Malfoy cleared the table a little by moving everything to the bed to make space for tea. “Have a seat.” He offered Harry the only chair and fussed over the kettle and mugs. “Oh. I hope it’s all right… These are the only mugs I have.”
Harry rolled his eyes at the Potter House Memorial mugs and shrugged. “What are you doing here? How did this happen?”
“As I said before, I came here for closure. You, your parents… If not for them, it all would have gone to hell. I’d just been set free from my short stint in prison—thank you for helping me with that, by the way—and I knew that if I was going to recover, I needed to see it. The house. As part of my history. Our history. Wizarding kind.”
Harry couldn’t argue with that, as he’d had the same impulse during the Horcrux hunt. Some of his tension leached away at the understanding.
“And when I got here, it was horrible. I chased off those kids and just started bawling. I slept in the garden, amidst the weeds, and the next night chased off another pair of horny teens. Honestly, the kids around here are the worst.” He smiled briefly and then bit his lip. “As I said… it just sort of snowballed. Cleaning up the yard, then the house. I made friends with the muggle neighbours."
He paused to smooth the sleeves of his shirt and Harry once again admired the fit. Malfoy in muggle clothes to blend with the muggle neighbours. Would wonders never cease.
"I started talking to real visitors that came by," Malfoy continued, "and someone offered a few galleons to fix some of the broken plaster. It’s registered as a National Trust site and yet no one has been assigned to care for it, perhaps because it's also listed as a private residence. So I started doing it.” He handed Harry a mug of tea. “I’m sorry I don’t have sugar. It’s, erm, expensive.” A blush cascaded over his cheeks.
“Can’t afford it after selling mugs and bookmarks?” Harry asked, unable to help the bitter edge to his voice.
But Malfoy didn’t take offence. “I don’t get paid anything for this. I got a small grant from the Ministry and I used every sickle and knut to restore the house. Maintain the garden. I swear I only take the bare minimum for food.” He gestured behind him at the boxes of pasta and rice on the shelf. “You have to believe me.”
Harry scrubbed at his hair in frustration, knowing he was being unfair. Malfoy seemed honest enough. “I do, I suppose. I can’t see why you’d live like this if you were raking in galleons.”
The space somehow reminded Harry of a grown-up version of his cupboard and he scolded himself for being cruel about it.
“It’s better than the alternative. And I like it. This work. It finally feels like I’m doing something worthwhile.”
“How did I not know about this? The merchandise, the reconstruction?”
Malfoy shrugged. “I think interest in the house is fairly specialised to the older set. From what I understand, more people visit Hogsmeade and the school for the memorial McGonagall set up there. Where he finally fell for good, you know? Mostly our visitors remember the first war. And your parents.”
“I think…” Harry cleared his throat awkwardly. “I’m sorry I was—angry. Earlier. It’s a really nice thing you’re doing here.”
“Thank you,” Malfoy said softly, twisting his mug this way and that. “It’s nice of you to say. I’ve worked hard on preserving history and honouring those that died.”
He looked so sincere, it was hard for Harry to hang on to his remaining ire. Malfoy, here, dressed like a muggle and preserving an important part of wizarding history. Of Harry’s history.
“I was almost sorted into Slytherin,” Harry blurted out.
A frown knitted Malfoy’s brow at the turn in the conversation. “Oh. Er, really?”
“Yeah. One of the info thingies said I was obviously sorted to Gryffindor, just like my parents. But… the Hat considered sending me to Slytherin.”
“Oh that’s… Thank you. For telling me. I’ll work on getting the placard updated.” He gave Harry a wry smile that made his belly flutter. “I’ll add it to the list of things to do.”
“Is there a long list?”
“Feels like it. Wards need refining. There are quite a few displays still in the planning works. The house next door might be up for sale in the next few months. I’ve thought about opening a café there. So many of the visitors like to sit in the back garden for a time after seeing the house. And it might mean a sustaining income.”
“Maybe I could help with that.” Harry sipped at his tea, hoping he wasn’t being presumptuous. Then thought it would be impossible for him to be presumptuous about anything to do with his own house.
“Yeah? A donation?” Malfoy's mouth twisted to smother a smile in a way that made Harry’s heart skip a beat. “We could name the new addition for you. Maybe a statue or something.”
He laughed in response at the gentle teasing. “We could…” He looked down at his cup, then back at Malfoy. “We could get dinner sometime? To talk about it?”
“I’d like that.”
Harry drained his mug of tea quickly. “Thank you for the tea. And for… all of this. You’ve done a great job.”
“Thank you.”
“And I’ll be in touch.”
Malfoy spread his hands with a smile. “I’ll be here.”
Harry decided to save his parents' graves for another afternoon. Instead he headed into town to book a hotel room for the week.
It wasn't quite time for him to leave Godric's Hollow just yet.