He looked up at his mother's face, through tears, and all he could do is marvel at how beautiful she was, and how serene her smile was as she stared into her baby's – Harry's – eyes. He could see her love for him written all over her face - the love that killed her, and gave him life. She looked so...young...innocent...almost naive in a way.
He wondered if she was still able to look at him the same way after she heard the prophecy. Her eyes, her smile, her posture - they all pointed to the fact that she loved her child with all her heart. Would she still feel the same way, knowing what her love had wrought?
And then there was his father, with his arm protectively wrapped around them both – what would he think of Harry now? The man was what Tom called an auror - he had dedicated his life to fighting dark wizards, to saving people, while his son consorted with a murderer. Would he still love Harry knowing the things he'd done?
Harry, we mustn't linger. You can only maintain the charm for so long.
A shot of fury ran down his spine when he heard Tom's thoughts in his mind, and he felt the air heat up slightly around him. As usual, Tom was just looking out for him...but the rage was there nonetheless, even if only momentarily. How dare Tom deprive him of more than he already had? Hadn't Lord Voldemort taken enough from the Potters? This moment belonged to Harry...and Tom had no right to interfere.
Except...that didn't matter. As usual, Tom was right.
He sighed. "I know."
Reluctantly, he walked away from the statue, relishing in the feeling of something ripping apart in his chest as he turned away from the only likeness of his parents that he'd ever known. He grew numb as he continued down the cobblestone street, listening to Tom's faint directions in his mind, and, as far as he knew, it was not long before he found himself in front of the Potter Cottage.
It was a sobering experience.
One side of the house was completely untouched, and could have been any abandoned house, blending in easily with the aesthetic of Godric's Hollow. But the other half...something twisted inside him as he surveyed the damage done by the killing curse that had rebounded off of him. It was like a fire had broken out in one of the rooms, and, while contained in one half of the house, had ravished it mercilessly.
Transfixed by the sight before him, Harry barely heard himself as he whispered "alohomora" to the gate in front of him.
The flowers gilding the sides of the cobblestone path to the cottage had long since died away, withered or strangled by weeds. He wondered what kind of flowers grew there, once - they were now too shriveled for him to tell. Did his mother choose them herself? Did she enjoy gardening? Had she lived...would Harry be tending this garden instead of Aunt Petunia's, his loving mother at his side?
Harry was in a daze as he entered the house – it was like stepping into a single moment of the past, the interior of the cottage almost mocking the loss belied by the candid normalcy of the scene before him. It was as if someone had frozen a moment in time and let it wither slowly away, preserving the shapes while dimming the colours, perpetuating a moment in a life while draining the life itself down to nothing.
Dishes still sat in the sink, and toys still lay on the living room floor. Shoes - a pair of trainers, work boots, and dress shoes, accompanied by small leather boots, pumps, and Mary Janes - were lined up against the wall on the left, a dust covered umbrella hanging above them with an array of autumn coats.
Harry could practically see the moving shapes of the previous inhabitants – his family – flitting in and out of reality. A mother was making soup in the kitchen while a father helped his son build a fortress out of pillows on the floor of the living room; a family was sitting together smiling at the kitchen table; a baby boy lay sleeping in the arms of his mother as his father arrived home from work with a smile. That was his life, once.
He shook his head. He wasn't there to reminisce on things he couldn't remember. He had a job to do.
So slowly, he made his way up to the stairs to the nursery, the location of which was obvious to him; it was the epicentre of the cottage's wounds.
He nearly stumbled and fell upon entering, almost physically startled by the cold wave of eerie nostalgia that washed over him. There was a crib...toys on the floor...pillows...walls painted with baby blue paint intermingled with scorch marks...
Did he recognize this? He couldn't tell whether it felt familiar, or if he just wanted it to feel familiar. He'd slept here, once. This was his room, before he had been orphaned and shoved in a cupboard. This bed, these toys - they had been his. Given to him by loving parents. It was all his, until Tom stepped foot in it...
He grimaced. He needed to get him self together.
Taking a deep breath, he knelt down and peered under the crib, and sure enough, there lay a thirteen-and-a-half inch yew wand, sleeping inconspicuously on the carpeted floor. Harry could feel Tom's glee in his mind as he slipped the wand into his backpack.
Well, that was...anticlimactic. He shook his head. He'd completed his mission. That was all that mattered.
Except...it wasn't. No, there was one last thing he needed to do - for his parents...for himself.
"Tom...I can't leave yet. There's something I need to do."
....
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