Chapter 12

Disclaimer: All characters and settings of Potterverse are the property of J.K. Rowling and other sundry entities. Only the plot belongs to me. I am making no money. I play in this universe for the sheer joy of it. My only payment is the kind reviews and comments of those who read and enjoy my tale. This story is canon-compliant through HBP. DH has, for the most part, been happily disregarded, especially that sappy epilogue!

Special thanks go to my beta reader, JuJuJenn. She makes sure I stay focused.

Twelve

Although they'd all told him that the wards would recognise him, Harry was sceptical. Still completely hidden under the invisibility cloak, he grasped the knob on the door of the outbuilding and gave it a twist.

To his amazement, the knob turned, and the door swung open. He stepped over the threshold and felt a slight tingle as he passed through the wards.

In the dim light that filtered through the high-set windows, he could see that the outbuilding was empty. He had no idea what it had once been used for, but it seemed his parents had never used it for any purpose at all, not even storage.

He found the tunnel that Snape had told him to expect, and he stepped into it. After only a few steps, even the feeble light that spilled in from the entrance was gone.

"Lumos," he barely whispered, and his wand tip began to glow weakly.

He moved slowly along the sloping floor of the tunnel, being careful not to make any noise.

After a few minutes, he found himself in front of another door. This one opened as easily as the first one had, and again he felt a tingle of magic as he passed through the wards.

The cellar was stacked with dozens of mouldering old boxes. A few of them had been knocked over, their contents strewn across the floor of the cellar. Old books, a stained pair of dragon-hide gloves, and out-dated school robes spilled out of one box. Tiny jumpers and knitted caps and booties overflowed another. As he looked around, he realised that he was looking at the detritus of his parents' lives – and his own brief and unremembered role as a part of those lives.

He picked up one of the booties. It was blue with a white stripe running through it. It seemed impossibly small, and he couldn't believe that he had ever actually been able to wear it. On impulse, he stuffed the bootie into the back pocket of his jeans.

He would have liked to look through the other boxes. Who knew what mementoes they held? All he had of his parents were the photographs that Hagrid had given him and the invisibility cloak he was now wearing. He cherished them, but they really gave him no insight into the people his parents had been.

He knew there was no time for such an indulgence, however. He made a vow to himself to return to this house someday and get to know his parents.

"Assuming the sodding bastard doesn't kill me first," he muttered to himself.

He shook off that thought and made his up the staircase that led up to the kitchen.

He eased the door open, alert for any sound from within the house.

He heard nothing.

He moved from the kitchen to the dining room and then into the parlour. In each room, there were signs of the battle that had taken place here on the night his parents died. The furniture lay in splinters; there were scorch marks on the ceiling and on the walls; the curtains hung in tatters from the front window. He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat as he realised that it had most likely been his father who had caused all this damage. He would have tried to hold Voldemort off, giving his mother time to try to save herself – and him.

He climbed the stairs that led to the upper level. On his right, he saw a nursery – his nursery. The door had been blasted from its hinges and lay on the floor just inside the doorway. The crib still held rumbled bed clothes – and a soft, brightly coloured stuffed dragon. There were puffy white clouds painted on the pale blue ceiling. He must have fallen asleep every night gazing at those clouds.

How he wished he could remember.

He backed out of the room and entered the room on the left side of hallway – the room that his parents had shared. The large four poster bed was still neatly made, though the linens had yellowed. So had the lace curtains on the window and the crocheted doilies on the bureau. A set of robes was hung on one of the bedposts. He recognised it as the set his father had been wearing in one of the photos Hagrid had given him. He stepped further into the room. There was a small dressing table against the wall near the door. A comb and brush sat on a mirrored tray. Several strands of long red hair were stuck in the bristles of the brush.

He picked up the brush and held it to his nose, hoping to find some lingering trace of her, but he smelled nothing. He pulled one of the strands out of the brush. He wrapped it around his finger, rubbing the silken shaft between his thumb and forefinger. He closed his eyes and imagined his mother sitting there, drawing the brush through her hair.

He reached out with his mind and with his heart, trying to touch her, to feel her, but again he felt nothing.

In a far corner of his mind – a corner he had finally learned to keep strongly shielded, even in sleep – he sensed the evil presence of the man who had ended his mother's life. He reflected on how unfair it was that he could sense nothing of her – the woman who had given him life and had died trying to protect him – but by simply lowering that shield he could connect to the man who had murdered her.

For a moment, for just the briefest of moments, he considered dropping that barrier. If he did, Voldemort would know exactly where he was and would surely come to him. He could finish this, right here, in the same place where it had all begun.

Except that it wouldn't really be finished, would it? He chided himself gently. It won't be finished until all the Horcruxes are found and destroyed. When that's done, I can end it.

Or he'll end it, and I'll be with my parents again.

He pushed the thought away. His parents had died to save him; he wouldn't insult their memory by giving up. Voldemort might very well kill him, but he would die fighting, just as his parents had.

Harry replaced the brush and backed out of the room.

He quickly looked through the two other bedrooms, but although they were furnished, they had an unused look and feel about them. He surmised that they had been guestrooms. He briefly wondered if Peter Pettigrew had ever slept in one of them. Had he made himself at home under his parents' roof, eaten the food his mother had prepared, and lain on the sheets she had washed while he plotted how to betray them? And was it here he had devised the plan to blame another friend for his own treachery?

And where was he now? Was he celebrating his belief that he had been responsible for Remus's death, as well? Was he proud to be the last marauder standing?

Knowing that such speculation was useless and distracting, Harry refocused on the task at hand.

There was one more room to check.

He opened the door at the far end of the hallway and stepped into what could only have been his father's study.

Three of the walls were covered with Quidditch posters. That seemed to fit with the stories Remus and Sirius had told him about his father.

The fourth wall had to be his mother's handiwork he realised as he examined the many photographs, both wizarding and Muggle, that adorned it. Here was a picture of the four marauders: Sirius and his father trying to push each other out of the frame; Peter stretching himself up, trying to appear as tall as the others; and Remus standing behind the other three as though trying to blend into the background. He recognised a picture of a much younger Aunt Petunia smiling down fondly on the over-large blue bundle perched on her lap. There were pictures of his parents taken at their wedding, and then a picture of his mother, standing sideways and turning back and forth a bit to show off her rounded belly. There were dozens of pictures of him. In some he was alone and in others he was with his parents, or with Sirius. There was even one of him with Remus. The pictures were hung in chronological order and gave him a glimpse of what his life had been like before – before he'd been banished to the cupboard under the stairs; before he'd been subjected to the cruelties of his cousin Dudley; before he'd been targeted by a madman.

Harry closed his eyes and his mind. He couldn't dwell on a past he didn't remember and couldn't change or else he'd never be able to concentrate on the things he could affect – the present and the future.

He drew a deep breath and turned toward the large desk that was pushed into the corner. The desk was obviously very old. Its wood surfaces were scarred and nicked. One of the legs had broken off, and that corner rested on a pile of books. The top of the desk was littered with rolls of parchment, broken quills, and dried up ink bottles. Several copies of The Daily Prophet were stacked on one side, so yellowed and brittle-looking that Harry knew if he touched them, they would crumble to dust.

A golden snitch sat at the back of the desk, its wings drooping, and its surface dulled by dust.

He could imagine his father sitting here, working and reading; or leaning back in his chair, his feet up on the desk, tossing the snitch and then catching it.

Harry smiled at the thought and looked around one last time.

There were no Death Eaters lurking here. The house was empty and had been since the night his parents died. Voldemort may have returned and left a Horcrux behind, but he'd known that no one would be able to get through the wards. He'd had Greyback hovering around the perimeter of the village, but only recently. Harry guessed that maybe Voldemort had given Greyback the task simply to keep him busy and out of trouble. And although he was planning to move the Horcrux, he hadn't felt a sense of urgency to do it before full dark. That meant he had believed Snape's information that Remus was dead.

He would go get the others so they could search for the Horcrux. He glanced at his watch and was horrified to discover that he'd been gone for nearly an hour. Hermione and Ron would be worried; and Snape ... bloody hell, Snape would be furious! Harry would be lucky if he made it through Snape's tirade with his own balls intact.

It was as he turned to leave the room that he saw it – old, burnished leather with a large, ornate "G" branded near the top, and the Gryffindor lion stretched out along the length of it.

It had been mounted on the wall over the doorway. His back had been to it the entire time he'd been in the room.

"You cocky bastard," Harry said. "You didn't even try to hide it."

He did a revealing spell and detected nothing, but he knew he needed Snape to check it before he touched it.

"I'll be back in just few minutes," he murmured. He spoke as though the scabbard was alive and quite capable of understanding him. "I'll be back, and one more piece of your rotten, black soul will be gone."

Harry quickly made his way back down the stairs, into the cellar, and through the tunnel into the outbuilding. As soon as he was clear of the door, he Apparated back to the clearing in the woods.

Hermione spotted him first as he pulled off the cloak.

She rushed over to stand in front of him.

"Harry, where have you been?" Although she spoke in a whisper, she managed to convey her concern.

Snape didn't bother to whisper, and when he spoke, his sarcasm conveyed fury rather than concern.

"How nice of you to join us, Potter. I was beginning to think we'd have to pitch a tent and camp out in these bloody woods while we waited for you."

"Can't think of anything much worse than spending a night in a tent with Snape," Ron put in.

Harry flushed slightly. "Sorry. I got distracted. I found ... things – things that belonged to my parents and to me. I ... I was ... looking at them."

"Now is not the time for reminiscing," Snape spat out.

"Since I don't remember any of it, I was hardly reminiscing. I know you don't care, but I never knew them. This was like ... like meeting them for the first time. I was just ..."

Snape sighed and held up a hand, interrupting him. "Although you think me a heartless bastard, Potter, I do understand. Right now, however, we have more pressing matters to attend to."

Harry nodded. "You're right. I'm sorry."

Snape nodded. "Now, what did you discover? Are there guards?"

"The place is empty. It looks like it hasn't been disturbed since ... since that night," Harry replied.

"In an hour it will be too dark to see. Let's hope we find the scabbard before then."

"I've already found it," Harry said.

"You weren't supposed to search for it on your own, Harry," Hermione said. "We could have helped."

"I wasn't actually searching for it. It's hanging out in the open."

"You didn't touch it, did you?" Snape asked.

"Of course not. I did a revealing spell and didn't find anything, but I know you've got more experience in that area than I have. I knew you needed to check it before we did anything."

"Then we'd best get to it," Snape said. "You'll have to go in first and open the door. Otherwise, we won't get through the wards. You and I can both Apparate to the back of the outbuilding. Leave the cloak for Weasley and Granger."

Harry nodded and handed the cloak to Ron.

A moment later he was gone.

"Half a kilometre due east," Snape said to Ron. "I trust you won't get lost."

"We'll find it," Hermione said. She placed her wand across her open palm.

"Point me," she said, and her wand dutifully spun to point north.

"Weasley, bring a large branch to transfigure into the duplicate scabbard."

"Why do I have to carry a log half a kilometre?" Ron complained.

Snape rolled his eyes, but Hermione spoke before he could make the scathing comment she knew was coming.

"So we don't disturb anything in the house, Ron. We don't know how long it's been since Voldemort was there. He may notice if something is missing – especially something large enough to transfigure into a scabbard for Gryffindor's sword – that thing is huge."

"Oh."

"Potter and I will be waiting," Snape said.

"We'll be along directly," Hermione said.

Snape nodded and disappeared.

Half an hour later, Snape was lifting the duplicated scabbard into place on the wall in the Potter house.

And an hour after that, the four of them were staring down into a cauldron that now held nothing but the black, dust-like remnants of yet another piece of Voldemort shrinking soul.