Point where the cottages ended and the lane turned into open country again. They walked

As quickly as they dared, past more windows sparkling with multicolored lights, the

Outlines of Christmas trees dark through the curtains.

"How are we going to find Bathilda's house?" asked Hermione, who was shivering a little

and kept glancing back over her shoulder. "Harry? What do you think? Harry?"

She tugged at this arm, but Harry was not paying attention. He was looking toward the

Dark mass that stood at the very end of this row of houses. Next moment he sped up,

Dragging Hermione along with him, she slipped a little on the ice.

"Harry --"

"Look ... Look at it, Hermione ..."

"I don't ... oh!"

He could see it; the Fidelius Charm must have died with James and Lily. The hedge had

Grown wild in the sixteen years since Hagrid had taken Harry from the rubble that lay

Scattered amongst the waist-high grass. Most of the cottage was still standing, though

Entirely covered in the dark ivy and snow, but the right side of the top floor had been

Blown apart; that, Harry was sure, was where the curse had backfired. He and Hermione

Stood at the gate, gazing up at the wreck of what must once have been a cottage just like

Those that flanked it.

"I wonder why nobody's ever rebuilt it?" whispered Hermione.

"Maybe you can't rebuild it?" Harry replied. "Maybe it's like the injuries from Dark

Magic and you can't repair the damage?"

He slipped a hand from beneath the Cloak and grasped the snowy and thickly rusted gate,

not wishing to open it, but simply so he'd some part of the house.

"You're not going to go inside? It looks unsafe, it might -- oh, Harry, look!"

His touch on the gate seemed to have done it. A sign had risen out of the ground in front

Of them, up thorough the tangles of nettles and weeds, like some bizarre, fast-growing

flower, and in golden letters upon the wood it said:

On this spot, on this 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, invisible to Muggles, has been left

In its ruined state as a monument to the Potters

And as a reminder of the violence

That tore apart their family.

And all around these neatly lettered words, scribbles had been added by other witches

And wizards who had come to see the place where the Boy Who Lived had escaped.

Some had merely signed their names in Everlasting Ink; others had carved their initials

Into the wood, still others had left messages. The most recent of these, shining brightly

over sixteen years' worth of magical graffiti, all said similar things.

Good luck, Harry, wherever you are.

If you read this, Harry, we're all behind you!

Long live Harry Potter.

"They shouldn't have written on the sign!" said Hermione, indignant.

But Harry beamed at her.

"It's brilliant. I'm glad they did. I ..."

He broke off. A heavily muffled figure was hobbling up the lane toward them, silhouetted

By the bright lights in the distant square. Harry thought, though it was hard to judge, that

The figure was a woman. She was moving slowly, possibly frightened of slipping on the

Date: 2015-12-11; view: 669