Themselves concealed while magically covering their traces.

“Let’s take off the Cloak,” said Harry, and when she looked frightened, “Oh,

come on, we don’t look like us and there’s no one around.”

He stowed the Cloak under his jacket and they made their way forward

Unhampered, the icy air stinging their faces as they passed more cottages. Any one of

Them might have been the one in which James and Lily had once lived or where Bathilda

Lived now. Harry gazed at the front doors, their snow-burdened roofs, and their front

Porches, wondering whether he remembered any of them, knowing deep inside that it was

Impossible, that he had been little more than a year old when he had left this place forever.

He was not even sure whether he would be able to see the cottage at all; he did not know

What happened when the subjects of a Fidelius Charm died. Then the little lane along

Which they were walking curved to the left and the heart of the village, a small square,

Was revealed to them.

Strung all around with colored lights, there was what looked like a war memorial

In the middle, partly obscured by a windblown Christmas tree. There were several shops,

A post office, a pub, and a little church whose stained-glass windows were glowing jewelbright

Across the square.

The snow here had become impacted: It was hard and slippery where people had

Trodden on it all day. Villagers were crisscrossing in front of them, their figures briefly

Illuminated by streetlamps. They heard a snatch of laughter and pop music as the pub

Door opened and closed; then they heard a carol start up inside the little church.

“Harry, I think it’s Christmas Eve!” said Hermione.

“Is it?”

He had lost track of the date; they had not seen a newspaper for weeks.

“I’m sure it is,” said Hermione, her eyes upon the church. “They . . . they’ll be in

there, won’t they? Your mum and dad? I can see the graveyard behind it.”

Harry felt a thrill of something that was beyond excitement, more like fear. Now

That he was so near, he wondered whether he wanted to see after all. Perhaps Hermione

Knew how he was feeling, because she reached for his hand and took the lead for the first

Time, pulling him forward. Halfway across the square, however, she stopped dead.

“Harry, look!”

She was pointing at the war memorial. As they had passed it, it had transformed.

Instead of an obelisk covered in names, there was a statue of three people: a man with

Untidy hair and glasses, a woman with long hair and a kind, pretty face, and a baby boy

sitting in his mother’s arms. Snow lay upon all their heads, like fluffy white caps.

Harry drew closer, gazing up into his parents’ faces. He had never imagined that

There would be a statue. . . . How strange it was to see himself represented in stone, a

Happy baby without a scar on his forehead. . . .

“C’mon,” said Harry, when he had looked his fill, and they turned again toward

The church. As they crossed the road, he glanced over his shoulder; the statue had turned

Back into the war memorial.

The singing grew louder as they approached the church. It made Harry’s throat

Date: 2015-12-11; view: 644