Chapter 25
Remus hasn’t been back to Godric’s Hollow in years.
He visited only once after that Halloween, in the days after the media circus of a funeral, when his life was a wreckage of what it had once been and he felt like torturing himself. He’d apparated to the street in the middle of the village, only a few cottages away from the Potter home, and had been greeted by the sight of the quickly erected memorial of his friends’ deaths.
He hadn’t even made it to the hollowed out remains of the cottage before apparating away. Gryffindor he may be, but at heart Remus has always known himself to be a coward.
Theoretically, he knows James and Lily are buried in Godric’s Hollow. He had no say in the planning, of course—back then, he’d been drunk most of the time and AWOL for the rest, purposely hard to find. He thinks Dumbledore and a few surviving members of the Order arranged things, but he can’t say for sure. It’s not like James and Lily had any family or friends left to deal with their affairs.
The memorial, however, reeked of the Ministry as soon as Remus saw it.
It hasn’t changed much in the nine years since its creation. Harry startles as they get closer and the sleek, unassuming obelisk abruptly changes to the statue of his parents, and Remus gives him a moment to adjust. Seeing James and Lily’s stone faces, life-sized and reasonably accurate, hits him like a bludger to the chest. Pictures, even moving ones, don’t do them the same justice.
Harry’s hand is small and fragile feeling in Remus’. They’re both wearing mittens, warm and obtrusive between them, but Remus can feel Harry squeeze his fingers as he stares at his parents in their full approximate glory for the first time. His face is almost painful to look at, wan and troubled under one of Remus’ caps.
“We can turn back at any time,” Remus reminds him. Reminds the both of them. “You don’t have to do this, Harry.”
Harry straightens his back stubbornly. “No,” he says. “I want to see them.” He stares at the statues for a moment longer, drinking his fill, and then nods jerkily at Remus. Obligingly, Remus pulls him gently away from the memorial and towards the church.
Remus’ feet feel heavier and heavier with every step towards the graveyard. At some point, he starts clinging to Harry’s hand just as tightly as the boy clings to his.
It’s late and dark enough that there isn’t anybody else around, which is a blessing. The church is quiet, the graveyard peaceful, the only disruptive sound being the creak of the old gate as they ease past it. Behind the church, row upon row of headstones poke out of the blanket of snow, stretching into the night. There’s a clumsily cleared path along the edge of the church, snow around it reaching up to Harry’s shin.
Remus and Harry trudge along the path, straining to peer through the dark at the headstones they pass. Remus lights the end of his wand after making absolutely sure they’re alone, covertly trying to light their way.
They find it some rows deep, a gleaming white marble headstone standing tall out of the earth. Snow dusts the top and obscures some of the engraved words. Harry reaches out a gloved hand and gently wipes it away.
Remus stands a few paces behind him, struggling to breathe through the sudden constriction of his throat. He feels lightheaded and fuzzy, tethered only through the hand still gripped in his.
James Potter, born 27 March 1960, died 31 October 1981
Lily Potter, born 30 January 1960, died 31 October 1981
The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.
“Oh,” Harry says, and it’s a terrible sound.
Remus doesn’t know how Augusta does this every year. Frank and Alice may not be dead, but he can’t imagine it’s much easier watching Neville interact with the parents that will never truly know him, not in the way that they should. Watching Harry now, kneeling in front of his parents’ graves, makes Remus’ chest feel like it’s collapsing inwards, like the ground is falling away from beneath his feet. He shouldn’t be here. None of them should be here, sleeping under the snow or otherwise.
Harry sniffles, then, a muffled, wet sound, and it makes Remus realise, suddenly, that he’s crying, too. The tears are cold on his cheeks, halfway frozen already.
Remus reaches into the expanded pocket of his coat and pulls out the flowers he’d conjured earlier, under Harry’s watchful eye. They won’t last forever, of course; they’ll likely disappear in the next few days before any of the locals begin to wonder about the out of season flowers in pristine condition in the middle of winter. But they’ll last for long enough.
Harry scrubs a rough hand under his glasses when Remus kneels next to him. The snow immediately starts seeping unpleasantly into the knees of Remus’ trousers.
“Here,” Remus says in a soft, quiet voice, offering the lilies. Harry stares at them for a moment before he takes them. He lays them in front of the marble headstone, hand lingering to brush lightly against the engraving of his mother’s name.
Harry’s curled inwards, shoulders hunched, and Remus can hear him taking deep, gulping breaths, muffled against his coat as if trying to hide it. Remus can still feel himself crying. He stretches out an arm and lays it across Harry’s back, squeezing him. Harry’s breath hitches once, twice, and then he slumps against Remus’ side.
“Happy Christmas, James, Lily,” Remus murmurs.
“Merry Christmas, Mum. Merry Christmas, Dad,” Harry echoes.
And as much as Remus’ chest aches, they stay sitting there as the snow falls around them until Harry says he’s ready to go. As Remus helps Harry climb to his feet, he pulls him into a sudden, impulsive hug.
“They loved you, you know,” he says roughly into Harry’s hat. “So much. And I know I’m not them, Harry, but—know that I love you, too. I did when you were just a baby, and I do now.”
Harry says nothing, but he buries his head in the front of Remus’ coat and holds him tightly around the middle as James and Lily’s headstone watches on. It’s far from perfect, but it’s what they have. It’s enough. It has to be.