"Harry, I think it’s Christmas Eve!" said Hermione.
He had lost track of the date; they had not seen a newspaper for weeks.
“I’m sure it is,” said Hermione, her eyes upon the church. “They… they’ll be in there, won’t they? Your mum and dad? I can see the graveyard behind it.”
Harry felt a thrill of something that was beyond excitement, more like fear. Now that he was so near, he wondered whether he wanted to see after all. Perhaps Hermione knew how he was feeling, because she reached for his hand and took the lead for the first time, pulling him forward. Halfway across the square, however, she stopped dead.
And as he thought this, the scar on his forehead burned so badly that he clapped his hand to it. “What’s up?” said Hermione, looking alarmed. “Scar,” Harry mumbled. “But it’s nothing … it happens all the time now”. None of the others had noticed a thing.
Harry doesn’t talk about the war. It wasn’t always that way, and after the war it was all he would speak of, his head on her knees in the yard at the Borrow, tearing grass leaves to shreds. He would recall the battles and the colors and the scents of Hogwarts burning, do you remember that, Hermione? Of course she did, and she would nod and hum an ascent and brush his hair off his face like the small gesture could do something, like she could touch that scar of his and send some healing power she didn’t even possess into his skin and fix—anything. A preposterous notion, of course. But Hermione protects Harry. That’s what she does. Harry saves the Wizarding World and Hermione saves Harry and the world turns on its axis, unaware. (x)
"He put his arm around Hermione’s shoulders, and she put hers around his waist, and they turned in silence and walked away through the snow, past Dumbledore’s mother and sister, back toward the dark church and the out-of-sight kissing gate."
HP Meme | Two Scenes [1/2] ↳ Harry and Hermione at Godric’s Hollow
Hermione had taken his hand again and was gripping it tightly. He could not look at her, but returned the pressure, now taking deep, sharp gulps of air, trying to steady himself, trying to regain control. He should have brought something to give them, and he had not thought of it, and every plant in the graveyard was leafless and frozen. But Hermione raised her wand, moved it in a circle through the air and a wreath of Christmas roses bloomed before them. Harry caught it and laid it on his parents’ grave.
As soon as he stood up, he wanted to leave: he did not think he could stand another moment there. He put his arm around Hermione’s shoulders, and she put hers around his waist, and they turned in silence and walked away through the snow, past Dumbledore’s mother and sister, back towards the dark church and the out-of-sight kissing gate.
but they were not living, harry thought: they were gone. the empty words could not disguise the fact that his parents’ mouldering remains lay beneath snow and stone, indifferent, unknowing. and tears came before he could stop them, boiling hot and then instantly freezing on his face, and what was the point in wiping them off, or pretending? he let them fall, his lips pressed hard together, looking down at the thick snow hiding from his eyes the place where the last of lily and james lay, bones now, surely, or dust, not knowing or caring that their living son stood so near, his heart still beating, alive because of their sacrifice and close to wishing, at this moment, that he was sleeping under the snow with them.