DISCLAIMER: I do not own any characters from the Harry Potter series. (etc.)

It had been thirty-two years since I was seven years old, thirty-two years since that very day that my father, well, stopped living. I could never bring myself to say, to anyone and myself, that my father had died.

It wasn't that I secretly kept a shard of hope that my father was out there lying in the streets…or walking the streets… or even looking upon the streets from a grand mansion, thinking of me, or of my mother, or his two best friends in the world.

The muscular body, the untidy black hair, the lifetime-old, black, round-framed glasses, the deep, soft voice, and the bright-green eyes of Harry Potter were gone. I knew this. I was also sure that I would never see the many unmistakable features of him again. But I had discovered something over these past few years.

That day when dawn crept along the ground without my any notice, Voldemort's blood pored out. His bones crumbled into powder and his flesh melted under the heat of power- a power so strong that it could not possibly take only one life.

As the Dark Lord seeped into Hell, my father was rising above us all in a ray of light. He was not screaming in pain like Voldemort was. The robes he was wearing billowed softly in a wind that was unfelt by us- my mother, the faithful Ron Weasley, the brilliant Hermione Granger, and me.

He was draped in rays of white that were so bright. He was hard to look at but easy to see, and I was not about to look away even if I was up there ascending beside him.

I saw him open his eyes and look at me. At that moment, I knew what was happening. But as my mind comprehended that he was leaving this earth, I was not sad because in that time that he looked at me, he reflected my face… he straitened his head and stretched his broad face into a small smile.

If I had known that I was smiling back at him for the last time, I would have never lowered my lips. But I knew this also.

I smiled at him, and, before it was too late, I waved to him. As I expected him to, he waved back. And then he was gone.

For almost a whole minute after I could not see him anymore, the white light stayed in the room. Before I could realize that in front of me were the gates of Heaven, I started to run. I knew my mother was running after me, but I did not care what was happening.

I ran faster and faster. This time, tears were streaming. I did not care that I was running down some endless hallway not meant to bare my quick strides. The light started to fade and I found myself screaming, "NOOOOOO!"

In the distance, I heard my mother coming after me. She grabbed me and held onto me and we watched in awe, a great force reacting in front of us, now. I saw him now. We were still as my father started to glare with a light so bright that his figure was undistinguishable. My mother shielded my eyes from the powerful light but I tried to push her hand away.

After I got one last glance at nothing but light, the gleam started to retract again. It started to fold and disappear. The gates of Heaven were finally closing with my father tucked inside for all eternity. Was he looking passed the bars, down at me now? Could he see me? Did he want to see me?

Over all of my years, I have imagined Heaven. I imagine my father sleeping, resting after a lifetime that would be passed down in history. I'm not scared anymore. I don't ever wonder where my father is because I know he is at peace. No pain, no fear, no doubt. It has been thirty-two years since that day.

Sometimes I catch myself trying to be like him. It is now that I have a son. His eleventh birthday turned in the beginning of the summer. He is filled with such fire and seems to remind me more and more everyday of the person I had lost long ago.

The boy's name is Harry Potter, after my father who had lived the life of ten heroes.

His acception letter to Hogwarts had come by owl over a month ago. It was the same letter I had gotten except the penmanship had changed. Professor McGonagall, the wise and stern transfiguration teacher had died before I entered Hogwarts. She left the job of Headmistress of Hogwarts to one of my father's best friends, the seventy-two year old Hermione Granger. She was truly the cleverest witch of her time and mine. I knew she would greet my son at the grand oak doors as he entered Hogwarts for the first time. With no doubt, I expected the steady Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher to be standing right beside her, Professor Ronald Weasley.

They would look at him and think of their friend, his grandfather. Would they think of me? I was the only son my father had ever had. He named me James after his father. I returned him the favor. I wonder if Hermione and Ron looked into his eyes and saw my father, the famous Harry Potter. I wonder if they ever saw my father in my eyes. Did they see my mother? For, she also was due to be remembered. Ginny, one of the most caring witches I had ever known, held on for ten years after my father was gone. I left Hogwarts to start my own life like my father had with my mother.

Today was a day I would hold onto until next Christmas. I would have to wave goodbye to young Harry as the Hoqwarts Express lifted him away to year one of his life.

Harry, his mother, and I arrived at King's Cross Station early enough to sit there and talk about what Hogwarts was like, how beautiful it was, and how much fun it would be. Harry spat out questions at a mile a minute and I tried to answer the best I could from memory. He asked about teachers and about schoolwork and friends.

The night before, while he was asleep, I flipped through his new schoolbooks. The Standard Book of Spells was nearly the same except for a few new ones added including the Wand Compass Charm created at Hogwarts in year 2000. Magical Drafts and Potions still had the stuffy, thick brews it did when I was little.

I flipped through the neat pages of A History of Magic. Wizards of all times and tales moved along on the paper. History and happenings replayed themselves in pictures and paragraphs. Famous dates dotted the articles and created the illusion that you were looking at the past. A few stories of war and victory were here and there. Great discoveries and inventions completed each passage. Heroes… were built and laid to rest after they changed the world.

At the back of the book, six pages were dedicated to a wizard who had performed many feats throughout a short lifetime. The picture under the title morphed many times. It started out as a baby on a doorstep, a twinkle in his eye and a mark on his forehead. The caption read The Boy Who Lived. It then changed to a young boy looking into a funny mirror, a lump in his pocket. The boy was one year older now. He was taller but had the same dark hair and round glasses when he defeated a giant serpent. The pictures flipped on with exploding spells and dangerous adventures from the wizard. The last image was a dark forest as the wizard cast a bright spell and illuminated the surroundings. The spell faded back into the tiny baby, the title Harry Potter still blazing boldly above it.

I dove into the paragraphs that were written about my father's adventures. I learned about his first encounter with Voldemort- my father taught me never to be afraid of using the "Dark Lord's" name. I took his advice and got in trouble at school a few times, although the teachers half-expected me to say Voldemort's name out loud with Harry Potter as my dad.

The stories ended with the date of his death. The paragraph before it had not explained in detail that last battle. They explained how the two wands merged to create a spell so severe that it took out both of the enemies. The writer recognized my dad as the winner of the battle as all of us had known it. The text did not mention that he had won it for me. For my mother. For his friend. For all man kind. It did not mention the bright light illuminating the way to Heaven for Harry Potter. It did not know what I saw, what I lived through. I did not regret it, though. I got to watch my father for the first seven years of my life. I got to know the most famous, the most quintessential hero in history. I would never take that back. I will never forget it.

The whistle of the train pierced through the distance. I took a look at my son.

"Are you ready to go?" I said, not so ready to say goodbye.

Harry was mesmerized as the train rolled by, "Yeah." He was staring at the train with joy. I knelt down to embrace my son for a long moment. I guess this was different than what my father got to do on his first trip to Hogwarts. I am so thankful that he was there for me. I wonder if my son held the same gratitude.

I looked into Harry's green eyes. The beauty of their rich color had to be coated by a pair of thick-lensed glasses. He was smiling widely, excited to start a new journey. I was excited for him, too. He was a normal boy with dark hair, a thin frame, and wild happiness. If only he knew…

My father left this world at age forty, but I could still see his soul inside the bright-green eyes of my son. My dad was alive- alive in my son, alive in his school, alive in me. The heart that once beat inside my father's chest was beating inside of me. That is how I see it, how I feel that a power so great can never die, how a love so great can never die.

The students of Hogwarts started piling in and Harry started to get excited.

"Come on, Dad. We have to go!" Harry pulled me towards the train. I gave him a kiss on the forehead before he boarded the Hogwarts Express. Was he aware that he was going to learn about his grandfather in history class? Would any young child recognize my son's name or his face to relate to a wizard who gave his life for every single one of them?

Harry walked down the train isle. I watched as he joined a compartment with a scrawny, redheaded boy and a polite, bushy haired, little girl. After moments, the train started to whistle and stir. The noise of the engine and wheels erupted and everything started to move. Harry jumped out of his seat and came up to the window to wave to me. I waved back.

As the train moved away, Harry's smile brightened as one last sign of goodbye. In that moment, a warming illusion took over my mind. I almost believed I was waving to my father as if he were eleven years old. My farther beamed at me. His face was young and innocent. The lines that he would collect over the years were not there. His tasseled, black hair blew in a draft from the window. The only thing that brought me back to reality was his bare forehead… for my son had never bared a lightning bolt scar.

THE End.