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Years had passed since the fall of Lord Voldemort. Sixty-two, to be exact. I wasn't alive when it happened, but I'd been told rather exciting stories from my grandparents – even though not all of them were happy.
The tales of the noble, young "boy who lived" – or, as he was better known, Harry Potter – valiantly defeating the Dark Lord, with the help of his two best friends and love, always sparked my attention. Ah, yes. The stories were so full of adventure that you could probably make a book out of them. I even recommended that of my grandparents once, but they just laughed.
I grew up in the old town of Godric's Hollow, down the street from the site where Harry Potter's parents died. Everything about the town had changed, including the houses that lined the streets, the people who lived in them, and the pubs that welcomed visitors year-round. The wizarding world was lively and happy again, and a holiday was even invented to celebrate the end of all that was evil.
However, one thing remained constant, for as long as my childhood memory could justify. That one house at the end of the street, still disheveled and covered in overgrowth, stood silent and untouched. From my bedroom window, I could see the old home, in all of its perfection and all of its imperfection.
One morning when I was about five, it was raining and the entire town had locked itself up indoors. I gazed out that bedroom window, watching the droplets crash onto the paved sidewalk. Out of thin air, an old man appeared in front of my house. He had a cane, for his back was bent and crooked, he had thick rimmed glasses that sat unevenly on the bridge of his nose, and he had jet black hair that stood up at odd angles with flecks of grey throughout.
With slow and steady steps, the man sauntered over to the broken house. I watched him curiously as he made his way over. The old man stopped before the gate and stared fixatedly upon it. He raised a shaky hand to run along the splintered wood. Within an instant, a sign sprouted from the ground and writing appeared across the fence and the sign itself. The old wizard was not surprised by the occurrence. Instead, he smiled warmly when it happened.
The man lingered there for a few, long minutes, sopping wet, before he pulled his wand from his cloak. His unsteady hand twirled in a circle and a fresh bouquet of flowers materialized in his other hand. With what seemed like much difficulty, he knelt to the ground and placed the bouquet against the rail of the gate. His cane assisted him to his feet, and with a faint pop, he vanished.
The following morning held the same events, at precisely the same time. I found myself waking up at an earlier hour so that I could witness this man's uncanny appearance. For a reason I could never understand, his weak and measured movements – as concentrated as they were – always rapt my interest. Each day he was alone, apart from his sturdy, wooden cane. A month came and went, and nothing changed other than the weather.
"Mum, who's that man?" I asked one Saturday afternoon.
"What man, honey?" she asked, not really paying attention.
"That man who comes to the old house every morning," I said.
My mum only shrugged and didn't give an answer. Likewise was my father's response when I asked him the next day.
I grew older, but I still watched the old man every morning. My life changed with each passing birthday, but I never stopped waking up to see the man deliver the new bouquet of flowers.
When I was eleven, I received my letter from Hogwarts. Since then, I had given up asking my parents who the man was. Instead, I allowed it to be an unanswered question that would answer itself in due course.
That final summer before I boarded the Hogwarts Express, I decided to wake up extra early one day. I knew the man would show, and I wanted to introduce myself. All those years of stalking him from my bedroom window made me uneasy. It was only fair, right?
He arrived at his usual spot and waddled over gradually. I waited patiently with my hands behind my back, leaning casually against the gate. The man had been so focused on his feet that he hadn't looked up to see me. When he finally did, his brilliant green eyes narrowed behind his glasses as they studied my face. He had his touch-of-grey hair combed down across his forehead, but it still stuck up in the back, like a bad case of bed-head. "Good morning, sir," I said, holding out my hand.
He looked at it, deciding whether or not to take it. He looked back into my eyes, stood up a little taller, and then very firmly grasped my hand, shaking it hard. I winced slightly, but turned the grimace into the kindest smile I could manage. He didn't say a word.
"Sir, I was just wondering," I began talking before I could formulate a coherent thought, "and please believe I don't mean to be rude, but I see you here every day, and well I leave to go to Hogwarts soon, and I just wanted to know – "
"Spit it out, boy," he said. His voice was surprisingly firm, but not at all unkind.
"Sorry, I was just wondering, who are you?" Looking back, I realize this was a rather rude question, but my eleven-year-old curiosity wasn't very easily tamed. I had to know.
The man looked up. He was surprised by my question. His green eyes, which were his most captivating feature, bore into mine as he tried to dissect my words. I thought it was a pretty straight forward question, but he seemed to be deciding whether or not I was joking. Finally, he smirked and said, "No one special."
My brow furrowed. I hadn't waited six years for an answer like that. "Well, why do you come here? Did you know Harry Potter? You know, this is where his parents died," I said with the strange urge to try and impress him with my knowledge of the old wizarding town.
The man chuckled knowingly, and ran his fingers over the gate. "Yes, I knew Harry Potter. " He laughed again at some joke I didn't know. "And, yes, son, I did know his parents died here." His wrinkled features turned serious. Something dark bloomed behind his eyes, and he fell quiet.
"How did you know him?"
He peered at me over his glasses with his eyebrows raised. "You have a lot of questions. What makes you so curious?"
"I've watched you walk up here every day since I was five years old. Every single morning, without fail, you've shown up at the same time to do the same thing. You must have some motivation," I said matter-of-factly.
He stared again, thinking. When he looked away, he pulled his wand from his cloak and muttered an incantation, summoning those same flowers to him. He placed them gently on the crisp grass, groaning as his joints cracked. He stood and glanced at me again. "I have my reasons." His tone wasn't as kind and it seemed a lot deeper. The finality of the sentence left no question as to whether the conversation would continue.
He strode away from the place and disappeared once more.
Through the days of my first year at Hogwarts, I thought frequently of the man. It was one thing in my young life that had never been answered, and I was never the type to leave it that way. When I returned home the following summer, I persisted in watching him every morning, too afraid to approach him again.
Like the summer before, I mustered up the courage to speak to him the day before my departure. And, like last summer, our conversation was just as short.
I spent much less time thinking about the man with the following years, and when I came home for breaks and summers, I even stopped waking up sometimes to watch him go. A twang of guilt pinched my stomach, but my life was changing, and the man's was not. That's just how life was.
Before my last year of Hogwarts, I went down again to meet the man. He greeted me with a scornful look but offered up a weak smile, none-the-less. I didn't say a word as he took part in his daily routine. When it came time to arrange the flowers, I pulled out my own wand and mimicked his usual incantation. He looked at me with curiosity and wonder, and behind his bright eyes, I thought I saw gratitude. "Son, why do you come here every year?"
I just shrugged. "I could ask the same of you."
His eyes narrowed again, but the man didn't seem angry. In fact, he seemed almost hurt. A single tear trickled down his wrinkled cheek. However, when he spoke, his voice was very steady. "It's a long story. One I don't wish to get into."
And, that was that. Just like every year. The mystery remained unrequited. He turned to go, but I grabbed his arm, making him stumble with his cane. "Please?"
He just shook his head and was gone.
The following summer, I only returned to collect my final belongings from home before moving into to my own house. I had decided that there was no point in wasting my time with the old wizard if it never did any good. I was done waiting for an answer, and I would have to live my life not knowing it.
But, that last morning I spent looking out my old bedroom window, I saw two people appear where one normally did. One was the man, of course, and the other was a woman with deep red hair. She was graying, too, but not nearly as much as the man she was supporting. And, yes, the woman was actually holding the man up as they made their way over to the old house.
The man seemed to be coughing, and he looked as though he was in a terrible condition. My breath caught in my throat, and suddenly, I wanted to cry. Not him, I thought.
In a flurry, I ran down the street. The woman turned to sound of my feet slapping against the road. Her face was taught from distress, and her big, brown eyes had pain in them. "What do you want?" she asked, her voice laced with irritation.
"I – I was just – er, is he okay?" I didn't know what else to say.
"Who are you?" she asked suspiciously.
I thought about it. There was no way she would know who I was if I told her my name, nor would she care. Then, a thought came to mind. "No one special," I said, smiling at the familiar phrase.
"I know who you are," she said finally. "You're the boy who lives down the street. Yes, he talks about you a lot."
"He does?" I asked, very surprised by her statement.
"Yes," she said, her tone disapproving. She looked down at him, and continued, "He says he wishes he knew why you cared."
I didn't know why I cared, honestly. He was really just another wizard I would never get to know. But, he wasn't just another man, and I couldn't understand why. It was like he was a family member I had learned to love. Suddenly, he coughed and it echoed through the street. He hadn't even heard our conversation. "I don't know," I said simply.
She watched me closely, and then said, "We better be going."
I stayed at my parents' house for a week after that morning, waiting for him to return. I sat by my window, watching the place he always emerged, but he didn't come. A whole week passed, and he never showed. Something was wrong.
I waited another week, praying that he would show, but again, nothing.
When I woke up one morning, I looked out my window to see not the one man, but a whole group of wizards dressed in black robes. I couldn't even count how many there were, the number was inconceivable. All of them walked through the streets silently, headed in the direction of the Godric's Hollow graveyard. No, I thought. No, it can't be.
I dashed outside and followed the crowd to see what was going on. When I reached the graveyard, I saw a fresh tombstone being magically placed in the ground and a heap of earth being dug up. What seemed like thousands of wizards and witches wept before the new burial site, and I watched as a smooth black coffin was lowered tenderly into the hole.
I had been too late for the ceremony. Many were clearing out already, but a few loitered about, saying their final words to the deceased. The sod had been evenly placed atop the coffin and the ground looked smooth again. One woman knelt before the tomb, covering it from my view. Immediately, I recognized her for the lady I saw earlier that month. No, no, no, I thought. NO!
I ran to her side and knelt beside to her. She wept silently into a large handkerchief. When I got a closer look at the stone, I saw it read: HARRY JAMES POTTER.
I gasped. Harry Potter? The Harry Potter? He was being buried here? Thoughts raced through his mind at a dizzying speed. It didn't make sense. Why was this woman so affected by his death?
And then, it clicked. All those years of watching the bent, old wizard offer flowers to the old Potter home, I had neglected to grasp the obvious. The silent, old man with the glasses and the jet black hair. It suddenly all fit. How had I missed it before?
A single tear escaped me, and I retrieved my wand from inside my robes. Ceremoniously, I conjured up those same, beautiful flowers and rested them against the tomb. "Goodbye," I uttered quietly.
Though my life continued to unfold and develop, and I had a wife and kids of my own, I still returned to Godric's Hollow every day to place a single batch of flowers before the gate of the old house for the rest of my life.
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