Gordic's Hollow - Part 2

He'd been just over a year old when he'd left here; there was no way he could remember this place. Still, the feeling persisted as he trudged closer.

He again felt that prickling on the back of his neck and turned around apprehensively. The wind ruffled the trees slightly, but other than the droning buzz of insects and a few bird calls, nothing disturbed the peace of his surroundings. Harry kept his wand in his hand as he moved closer.

It's just nerves.

Thick clumps of lilies grew along the edge of the house foundation, and Harry wondered if his dad had planted them for his mum. He swallowed again, realizing for the hundredth time how little he actually knew about his parents and their life together.

As he inched closer and closer towards the ruins, he wondered... if things had happened differently... whether his dad would have put a tire swing on a low-lying branch of one of the garden's many trees. There was a swing at the Burrow that appeared to have seen a lot of use, and it had come to symbolize a happy family home to Harry. He would have liked to see a swing in his own yard.

He wondered if he might have had younger brothers or sisters who would have swung with him or maybe demanded that he push them. He thought he would have liked being a big brother.

The persistent lump in his throat grew in size as he imagined both his parents taking him to King's Cross on his first day of Hogwarts and actually accompanying him onto the platform. Everything could have been so different…

Rage and loss filled Harry's heart as he stared at the destruction around him with deadened eyes. Voldemort did this. He stole whatever chance of happiness and a normal childhood Harry had ever had. It wasn't fair!

It doesn't do to dwell on dreams…

Dumbledore's voice echoed in Harry's head as he stepped over the threshold and inside what would have once been his family's home. Harry shuddered; there had been entirely too much death already. He could feel a tingling sensation under his skin that made him uneasy, and he glanced warily at the street once again.

Nothing disturbed the peacefulness of the morning, and Harry scolded himself for losing his nerve. Being here was making him jumpy. In his mind's eye, he could vaguely imagine how it would look if all the walls had remained intact, and thanks to the memories the dementors had evoked in him, he could hear the echo of his parents' voices.

He inched forward, pushing random pieces of rubble out of the way with his foot, until he came upon a piece of blackened, scorched earth. It appeared as if there had been a fire on this one small bit of ground. Harry knelt down and ran his hand in the dirt. It felt decayed, lifeless, as if nothing would ever grow in that spot again.

A chill ran down Harry's spine. This was where his father stood when he'd been murdered. Harry knew it with the same certainty that he knew his own name. He shut his eyes tightly and took a deep, shuddering breath. He continued walking through what once was his home, staring without really seeing. He kept hoping for some stray memory to surface, but there was nothing.

An overwhelming sense of despair and hopelessness washed over him as he sank to his knees and sat amidst the ruins, uncertain where to go or what to do next.