The ballad of an orphaned lamb

When he woke up, the sun was still shining bright through his window. He grabbed his glasses nearby, and finally lifted his head from the pillow. His eyes moved from his sleeping owl, hiding her head in her wing, to Lena, staring outside his window, to a plate of sandwiches and savory pies sat on his nightstand.

With slow movements, still feeling his head clouded by sleep, Harry grabbed the plate slowly, and watched his owl’s chest gently rise and sink as he dug into one of the sandwiches.

“Good morning, sun.” Lena whispered with a smile, turning her head to him. 

Harry looked at the clock, his eyes widening as he saw that it showed almost nine. If he wasn’t mistaken, even in London at the height of summer, nine in the evening should mean it should be twilight outside. Instead, the sun was shining brightly. 

“How long have I slept?” he asked, worried.

“You started snoring at around three or so. I’d say a record sixteen hours, but you woke up in the middle of the night. Do you remember that?” 

Munching on his sandwich, Harry tried to remember, yet had no idea. He had a dreamless night, and recalled nothing apart from his visit to the wand store, and his last thoughts as he drifted to sleep. Lena appeared to nod to herself as he shook his head, and he grabbed another sandwich, offering her one.

“I’m good, sweetie. I had some already. Tom is always trying to push English tea on me when you’re not there, you know,,, I keep telling him, it smells and tastes like-”

“I think I want to visit my parents’ graves.”

It just came out of him. He didn’t even know if he meant it, and part of him almost wanted to shake his head and take it back when she asked if he was sure. He wasn’t sure. He doubted he would ever be sure. Would anyone, in his shoes, be sure?

“If-if… if th-there’s even…” he stumbled on his words, not knowing how to word his question.

“There is a grave.” Lena stated, kindly.

“How do you know?”

“I’ve been there.” 

She said it with ease, as if it was the most normal fact in the world. Harry swallowed the last remains of his sandwich, before speaking up. He couldn’t help but feel a hint of indignation. She had asked before if he had wanted to go, but… he had always thought it was a decision both of them made not to go. He couldn’t help but feel as if she had kept this from him.

“When?” his voice was strained. He had never talked openly about his parent’s remains or final place of rest, and found it surprisingly difficult. Did he have the right to tell her not to have gone? 

“Does it matter?” her voice was solemn as she spoke, and without waiting for Harry’s answer, continued. “Every year since I’ve had you.”

“You never told me.”

“Why? Would you have wanted to come with?”

Harry sheepishly grabbed another sandwich, turning his head away. He had refused for years to go, and he knew that she knew that, and that she knew he would have said no. Still with the plate in his hand, he watched as Lena lifted herself from the chair, and opened the window, explaining it was so his owl could come and go as she pleased until they’d return.

“We can Apparate directly in Godric’s Hollow. This time on a weekday, the entire village should be quite empty. I’ll go so you can freshen up a bit and change, yeah?” she instructed, approaching him. She ruffled his hair, and asked him to look her in the eye. Harry lifted his head, only for her to repeat if he was sure he wanted to go.

Well, there’s no turning back now, he thought, and nodded. He was afraid to open his mouth. He was afraid something within him, maybe the sane part of him, would say ‘no’. 

She asked him a third time, about half an hour later, after Harry had taken a shower and changed his clothes. This time, he managed to voice his approval, and without her prompting, grabbed her hand tightly and closed his eyes. Again, he felt pushed within himself, feeling as if he was suffocating for a split-second, before feeling Lena’s arm relax around his grip. 

When Harry opened his eyes, he felt his stomach drop. He let go of her arm, and turned his head, trying to take everything in. Under the bright sun, quaint little cottages lined the road they were on, all bearing small stone fences dividing them from the road. 

Any of those looked like they could have been his parents’ house.

Harry walked slowly, taking everything in. The sights. The smells. Did he ever walk those streets with his parents? Did his mother ever plant flowers, like he saw in the garden of one cottage on the right, or did he have a broken mini set of Quidditch thrown in one corner, like he saw in the cottage next to it? He looked ahead on the narrow street, and saw, among street lights and a pillar-like monument, a small cross in the distance, affixed onto a roof. That should be the church - and where there’s a church, there must be the graveyard.

With a lump in his throat, he walked towards it, at first slowly, then with each step hurrying more and more. He didn’t even hear Lena call after him, until he felt her hand on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.

“Harry. Turn around a bit.” she murmured, and Harry followed, turning around. He’d passed the monument, not caring much for it, but now realized the pillar must have been enchanted for Muggles. In its place stood a statue bearing what he easily recognised as his parents. Even in marble, he could discern the same untidy-looking hair he had on his father. He stepped closer, and looked at his parents, immortalised in stone. His eyes then fell on the baby in his mother’s lap. It was him. He looked at the writing underneath, and saw their names, alongside a small inscription titled ‘A mo(nu)ment of love’.

“Who-...” Harry began, not knowing how to phrase it. Who paid for it? Who made it? Whose idea was it?

“I think the village did. In the days following the defeat, there were many celebrations for your family, for you. It’s all down to love, isn’t it? They wanted the wizards who visit here, who come here, to know that a loving family lived here once, and that that’s something to celebrate.”

“But not the Muggles.” Harry couldn’t help but joke, a sliver of a smile appearing on his face.

“Ei na.” 

He gave the monument one last look, before continuing towards the church. Slowly, the extent of the graveyard showed itself to him, and his stomach tightened. The shadow of his smile slowly faded as he turned towards Lena. Did he need… permission, to enter? From someone in the church? No, that would be ridiculous.

He watched her advance through the churchyard, and he followed her. He watched as parishioners entered the church from the corner of his eye, almost tripping on what looked like an ancient gravestone. 

“Sorry-” he said awkwardly, before turning to Lena. However, she had stopped, and had her arm outstretched ahead.

“Five ahead, four to the right.” 

“You’re not coming?”

“You go first.”

He should, shouldn’t he? With a heavy heart, he walked slowly among the graves, feeling his stomach tighten more and more as he approached the headstone. 

On white marble, he read their names. Their dates of birth. The date inscribed when they died. He wondered who chose the inscription, the marble.  

‘The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death’

Harry took a seat on the grass, and looked around. This early in the morning, the graveyard was mostly empty. He saw, in the distance, an old woman bending down above a headstone, and saw her lips moving. He wondered if he should talk as well - that was, after all, what people did. He opened his mouth, thought about what would be best to say, yet nothing came to him, and Harry closed it back. It wasn’t like his parents were able to listen. 

Digging in his trousers, he took the envelope which contained his Hogwarts letter. He kept the second page, which listed everything he needed, and took one final look at the first page, before folding it thrice. Harry didn’t know why he was doing it, but as he was digging a small hole by the marble, and shoved his folded Hogwarts letter, it just… felt right.

He got up, and saw Lena approach from a distance. In her hand, she had a bouquet of irises, which she held in front of her, nodding to Harry. He took them in one arm, and saw her motion to the headstone. He placed them gently onto the marble, covering the freshly dug spot of dirt with their end.

“I don’t… feel like crying.” he finally said, as he took a step back and felt her hand around his shoulders. “Or talking to them. People do that, don’t they?”

“Only if they feel like it.“

He stood still, looking again from his father’s to his mother’s name. It was only as he looked more at the headstone that he discovered small remnants of other people visiting. Tiny petals hidden in the grass. Wick ends, here and there, and small, transparent bits of candle wax. 

“There’s no normal way to grieve, Harry.” Lena continued, and he nodded. “Let’s go for a walk. See how other people rest. Say, have I ever told you about Miorita?”

Harry shook his head, and followed her. Every now and then, Lena would ask i he’d heard of a story or other. If not, she’d recite it, and then asked him what meaning he gave to it. He always felt as if he had to take some important lessons out of it, yet in many cases, he simply did not know. Most of them were spoken in verses - there wouldn’t be a single summer in Romania where he wouldn’t hear a new version of an old story, accompanied by a lute, a fiddle, or just voices accompanying each other.

She spoke about the story of three shepherds, and how two of them planned to kill the other for his larger flock of sheep. Yet one of his sheep knew how to speak, and warned him of the impending murder, and advised him to run, to protect himself. Instead, the shepherd accepted that was his fate. Instead of running, he advised his sheep where he wants to be buried, and that if his mother asks, he didn’t die, he married a princess far away, and they had a beautiful wedding.

“Why didn’t he run?”  Harry waited for her to finish the description of the wedding, before finally asking.

Lena gripped him tighter by the shoulders, her voice a whisper as they passed another ancient gravestone. She pondered his question for a long time, before simply saying ‘I wonder…’

“Should we go?” Harry proposed. He saw the people leaving the church, and did not feel ready to return to the gravestone, not in the presence of others at least. He let himself be led out of the cemetery, looking up at the memorial once again as they passed it.

They took a different route to the one at first, which Harry was ready to question, before noticing a cottage that looked markedly different than the others - on account of the top half being blown apart, as well as the complete state of disarray it was in.

“Is this-” 

Without even thinking whether he wanted to go closer to it, he felt his legs move almost on their own accord towards it. That was his house. That big, wide, gape was once his room. With toys. With his mum. With his parents.

“It is. They kept it… Go closer to the gate. Look- ” she approached the gate, and pointed to a spot. Harry went closer, and watched as a sign grew and unfolded itself in front of him like  a flower bloomed. He read the sign with difficulty, as with every word, he felt his eyes well more and more with tears. He tried to wipe them furtively, before reaching out with a hand, touching all the scribbles around it. Initials, names, some of them with surnames he recognised earlier from the graveyard, and small messages, wishing him a happy life, luck, and love. He looked back up at the house. 

“They all think I’m great. What if I don’t-...” his voice strained as he spoke, and he cleared his throat. “What if I’m not as great and special as they think I am?” He felt Lena’s grip on his shoulder tighten, realising that she had not let go of him all this time.

“You don’t have to be, Harry. You’ve done more than enough. You survived, and you’re alive, and that’s what people love you for.”