At the center of the square stood a war memorial. From a distance, Uncle Vernon had already identified it as a monument commemorating the Second World War, an exaggerated, abstract sculpture.
But as they approached, Vernon was stunned to see the abstract form shift. In the blink of an eye, it transformed into a statue of three figures: a man with messy hair and glasses; a woman with long, flowing hair and a beautiful face; and a baby boy cradled in his mother's arms.
Vernon tensed immediately, glancing at Harry, then at the other people in the square. He was certain he'd caused this bizarre and blatantly magical phenomenon, and feared that passersby or others in the square had noticed.
His body rigid, Vernon's expression and movements were almost comical, especially paired with the exaggerated look of dread on his face. It softened the complex emotions swirling in Harry's heart, making him feel both amused and exasperated.
"It's alright, Uncle," Harry reassured him. "The statue only changes when a wizard approaches it. Muggle eyes can't see it."
"Well, that's a relief," Vernon said, visibly relaxing. He finally took a moment to study the statue closely.
It was strikingly familiar. One figure was his wife's sister, another his brother-in-law, and the baby—now grown—stood right beside him. Just last year, the couple commemorated by this statue had appeared before him, giving him quite a fright.
But those figures hadn't been flesh and blood. They were translucent, ghostly souls.
Souls. What a strange word. Before last year, Vernon never imagined he'd have any connection to it.
Truth be told, the past couple of years had been filled with so many extraordinary events that Vernon could hardly believe it himself. Things had changed—dramatically—and even he was starting to realize it.
At the base of the monument, an inscription read: The last enemy to be destroyed is death.
It was clear, even to Vernon, that the statue didn't just honor the Potter family. It commemorated all those killed by that deranged dark wizard.
"Well…" Vernon muttered, his gaze lingering on James Potter's statue, his expression complicated.
James's face was carved with resolve and fearlessness, his pose radiating the heroic determination of someone marching to their death. Honestly, this noble, self-sacrificing image didn't match Vernon's memory of the man at all.
Not the expression, the demeanor, or anything else…
"…So you weren't entirely insufferable, were you?" Vernon murmured under his breath, barely audible even to himself.
He patted Petunia's shoulder. Since they'd arrived, she'd been standing motionless, staring at the monument. After all these years, this was the closest she'd come to touching the traces of her sister's life.
Her emotions were a tangled mess.
"Let's go, Petunia," Vernon said, his voice unhurried and, compared to his usual tone, almost gentle. "We can check out the house… There's probably still a lot to see…"
Vernon glanced at Harry, noticing that his nephew—who, since last year, had somehow become sharper and more mature—was also staring at the statue. The usual spark in his eyes was gone.
"…Let's go, Uncle," Harry said, turning around calmly before Vernon could decide whether to call out to him. "From what I've heard, the house is on the other side of the church. We can stop by the church first—my parents' graves are in the cemetery behind it."
Dudley seemed to want to comfort Harry but didn't know what to say in such a moment.
No one objected, so the group crossed through the village church to the cemetery at the back. The graveyard was filled with countless headstones, as the Muggle residents of the village also buried their loved ones here.
Finding his parents' graves wasn't difficult for Harry. The wizarding section of the cemetery was set apart, accessible through a narrow side gate. Rows of headstones stood on a silvery-blue carpet of grass, engraved with the names of ancient wizarding families. This was also the source of the church's haunted reputation.
James Potter
Lily Potter
The four stood before the two headstones, the air growing solemn. Harry gazed at his parents' graves. James's headstone bore the carved image of a Firebolt broomstick, while Lily's was adorned with a delicately etched lily flower, intricate and beautiful.
"You alright, kid?" Vernon asked, resting a hand on Harry's shoulder with a gentle squeeze.
"I'm fine," Harry replied, his voice steady, as if startled from a reverie.
Sadness? Anger? Hatred? Regret? Harry didn't know how he appeared to others at that moment, but he knew one thing for himself. Last year, when he'd looked into the Mirror of Erised, which showed the heart's deepest desires, he hadn't seen Lily or James.
Deep down, Harry already sensed the truth. If it had been the deaths of the Kanes standing before him, he wouldn't be this calm.
For now, it was more a sense of reflection than anything else.
"I'm fine," Harry repeated. "Don't forget, seeing them again isn't exactly impossible for me."
His words instantly lightened the heavy atmosphere. Even Petunia, who'd been quietly wiping tears, broke into a tearful smile. She still couldn't forget the shock of last year, when she'd opened the front door to find her long-dead sister floating before her in a translucent form.
After paying their respects, the four headed out of the church. Harry's eyes drifted over the various headstones, some so old that their inscriptions had faded under the erosion of time.
He even spotted familiar surnames, like Dumbledore.
Suddenly, Harry stopped. The headstone before him bore handwriting he recognized—Dumbledore's handwriting, the same as the notes he'd received from the Hogwarts headmaster. The elegant, looping script was unmistakable, a hallmark of his personal style.
Did that mean these two headstones had been erected by Professor Dumbledore himself?
Kendra Dumbledore—according to the inscription, this was Dumbledore's mother.
Ariana Dumbledore—this was his sister's headstone.
On Ariana's headstone, Harry noticed an additional inscription: Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.
A sudden realization stirred in Harry's mind. He felt he might have stumbled upon one of Dumbledore's hidden secrets.
Why had Dumbledore been so emotional yet restrained when he learned Harry could summon the souls of loved ones? Why had he shown such clear longing but ultimately refused Harry's help?
Was it because of some insurmountable barrier in his heart? A hidden pain?
Ariana Dumbledore… Harry repeated the name silently, committing it to memory.
After leaving the village church, the group turned down a narrow path. Though it was Harry's first time in Godric's Hollow, he moved with the familiarity of someone returning home, navigating the winding lanes effortlessly.
Using a Scrying spell, Harry had already surveyed the entirety of Godric's Hollow. Amid the rows of well-maintained, ornately decorated houses, a single, isolated ruin stood out starkly.
They passed through more rows of houses and turned down another narrow lane, drawing closer to their destination. At the end of the path, they reached a low stone wall. Beyond it lay an overgrown garden, choked with weeds and nettles.
At the garden's far end stood a dilapidated house, its roof collapsed, windows shattered, and walls covered in ivy.
In front of the house stood an elderly man with white hair and a flowing beard, dressed in a light blue robe adorned with mysterious golden symbols—triangles, circles, and more. A pair of glasses perched on his nose, and he seemed lost in thought, gazing at the house.
"Dumbledore?!" Petunia exclaimed before Harry could, her face a mask of shock. "What are you doing here?!"
"…Oh, Miss Petunia, Mr. Dursley, and young Mr. Dursley—good morning," Dumbledore said, snapping out of his reverie. His tone was light and cheerful as he greeted them. "I must say, Harry, you're a tad late."
"Sorry, we got held up at the church," Harry replied with a nod. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long."
"Wait, so you called him here?" Petunia turned to Harry, bewildered. "Why?"
"Because we're about to explore an ancient wizarding family's manor," Harry explained patiently. "Houses like this often have defensive enchantments. Given that my magical knowledge is still quite limited, I invited Professor Dumbledore to assist and ensure we don't run into any trouble."
"As I've said before, you have a commendable sense of caution, Harry," Dumbledore said with a chuckle. "No worries, I haven't been waiting long. Fawkes is just too swift, that's all."
Before leaving that morning, Harry had sent Fawkes to deliver a signal to Dumbledore, confirming their meeting as planned.
"That's good to hear," Harry said with a playful grin. "I'll make sure to send you some delicious pastries afterward as thanks for your help today."
"Honestly, Harry, I'm almost touched, you know," Dumbledore said, dramatically wiping a mock tear from his eye. "When I think about it, this might be the first time you've asked for my help with something magical—finally not ordering me to dig dirt here or move trees there."
"Digging dirt and moving trees are magical tasks too," Harry said, feigning innocence. "It's all the same."
"Oh, no, no, no, it's not the same at all," Dumbledore said, pretending to be stern. "I'm delighted you've discovered my true potential, Harry. If you'd done this sooner, you might not have had to lurk outside the headmaster's office at midnight waiting for me."
"Really?" Harry teased. "I think no matter what I did, you'd have found a way to dodge me."
"Regrettably—you're absolutely right."
Their banter dissolved into laughter, leaving the other three exchanging bewildered glances.
Vernon, in particular, was stunned. He'd never imagined his nephew would be on such friendly terms with the headmaster of that wizarding school—as if the age gap didn't exist, like they were old friends.
The laughter eased Vernon's tension somewhat. From the moment Dumbledore appeared, he'd been on edge, instinctively shielding Dudley and keeping his distance from the wizard.
Dumbledore, unbothered by Vernon's wariness, chatted casually with Harry as they circled the overgrown garden and approached the ruined house.
"By the way, I don't think I've wished you a happy birthday yet, Harry," Dumbledore said suddenly, pulling something from his pocket and handing it to him. "It's not too late to remedy that—happy birthday."
It was a slice of cake, lemon-flavored by the look of its vibrant green hue, healthy and refreshing.
"No special meaning, just a simple gift," Dumbledore said with a playful wink. "I hope you don't mind."
"Of course not," Harry said, taking the cake. He broke off a piece for himself and handed the rest to Dudley, who'd been eyeing it eagerly. "Not everything needs a grand purpose. Thanks for the gift."
"Ah, another sentiment I couldn't agree with more," Dumbledore said with a sigh. "I'm growing more curious about that mysterious past of yours, Harry… Perhaps we'd get along quite well on many matters."
"Maybe," Harry said with a shrug.
In truth, he didn't think he and Dumbledore were all that alike. Their thoughts, personalities, and perspectives on many issues were vastly different.
But there was no need to dwell on that now.
To Harry's surprise, many of the Potter manor's belongings were still intact. He'd half-expected the place to have been looted, given that it had stood empty for twelve years with no one to look after it.
A mirror framed in real gold still hung on the wall, though it was draped in dusty cobwebs. Silver candelabras and jewel-encrusted statues remained, coated in the grime of time, animal fur, and even droppings, yet untouched by thieves.
"You see, Harry," Dumbledore said with a wistful tone when Harry voiced his surprise, "the night Voldemort killed your parents and vanished without a trace, leaving only a baby with a lightning-shaped scar… that news was like a beacon, illuminating the lives of those who'd suffered under his reign of terror."
"That night, countless families and wizards raised their glasses in celebration of Lily and James's sacrifice—and of you—until dawn."
Dumbledore's meaning was clear.
"So you're saying even the most despicable thieves respected my parents' sacrifice enough to leave this house untouched?" Harry said, his expression complicated. "The wizarding world really is… remarkably simple."
Perhaps because magic and potions made survival easier for wizards, freeing them from the desperate struggles of Muggle life, they could afford such principles. In Harry's experience—whether in Azeroth or the Muggle world—when survival was at stake, some held to their morals, but many would do whatever it took to survive.
"Not quite to that extent," Dumbledore said, sensing the weight behind Harry's words. "The Ministry placed protective enchantments on this house as a tribute to your parents' contributions."
The monument in the square wasn't the only memorial. This house, where the Potters had lived, was preserved as well.
On that night of slaughter twelve years ago, the force of dark magic had reduced the house to ruins. The roof had caved in, the windows shattered. As Harry and the others pushed open the door, they found the entrance hall's stained-glass decorations mostly broken.
When sunlight filtered through the remaining glass fragments, it didn't cast a radiant glow but illuminated swirling clouds of dust… and vast webs spun by spiders.
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