A young man was standing by the grave. The blonde hair flickering around him. A solitaire tear escape from his eye. "Harry James Potter" he read, again and again. The day of his birth, the day of his death. He had died young. Not so long ago. "Our hero" was the only other inscription on the cold, grey stone. The flowers were dead. The live had gone on without him. As it always does. Only the blonde still came here. Today he carried a single red rose. "You killed Lord Voldemort, you died.. The magic in my life died with you.."