Title: Book of Chimera: Identity
Be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.
- Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, II, v
Godric’s Hollow, 1998
Dark grey clouds could be seen in the landscape of the quaint Welsh village. It had begun as an ordinary Saturday morning, with a clear but not so sunny sky. It was only after some time that the festering balls of grey had made a startling appearance. The villagers were rather taken aback by this. They had sworn they had not seen such a sight in a long time.
It seemed unnatural, at least to them. Whenever a townsman glanced up at the sky, a cold shiver seemed to run briskly across their spines. The undercurrent of anger and frustration seemed to express itself in the depressing, grey background that scared them.
In one far corner of the town that was the cemetery, a stranger took no heed of the weather. His clear blue eyes were instead were fixed on the funeral party before him. Of wizards.
He carefully observed the figures before him. The most noticeable of them was a very old, somber-looking man with a long white beard and half-moon glasses. His bearing radiated a sense of power and grace embellished with sadness.
‘That’s him. I never expected to see him like that. So helpless…’
Next to the old man was a young boy. The boy-man was a tall, lanky redhead who had his arms full of a bushy-haired brunette, who was sobbing her eyes out. She was not the only one as an older plump redheaded woman was crying also.
‘Or rather wailing,’ he thought wryly. Running his hand through his blond locks, he chuckled. Never in a million years had he even thought of it ending this way. That he would be at this funeral. He always wondered what they would say at this one’s.
‘Probably will only have one line: He saved the world. Nothing more and nothing less.’ He thought bitterly.
“Do you think they’ll have a wake for you? Then again, you aren’t Irish,” whispered a deep voice from behind him.
Startled, though quick, the blonde man turned to it. Catching sight of his companion, his expression changed from a glacial mask to one of annoyance.
“How many times have I told you to NEVER sneak up on me, Brett?” he spat out.
The tall raven-haired man to whom the other’s glare was fixed upon just arched his eyebrow and said, “Many times…though I never pay attention to it, James.”
Taking the scene before him seriously now, the teasing look in his eyes softened. Turning to his companion he asked, “Are you ready?”
It was some moments before James had answered him, for at that moment, his eyes were still on the people Apparating out of the cemetery. The expression in his eyes had hardened a bit and it was with that very same coldness that he replied, “As I’ll ever be.”
Brett had nodded and from his Muggle coat took out a toothbrush. He then extended it to James, who grabbed it. They had disappeared from the cemetery.
It was quite still in that graveyard and with the storm clouds, still brewing and thundering over the village, the first raindrops came surprisingly soon, over the only freshly dug grave. The marker read:-
Harry James Potter
He shall never be forgotten.
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