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The first time I saw the man at the grave, it was November 16th, 2000. I remembered the exact date because it was the first time someone had been buried in our small-town cemetery who wasn't a resident.
The man had purchased a family plot in the most secluded section of the cemetery. He brought flowers—roses, forget-me-nots, red tulips, and carnations. It made a few things clear:
- This man was very wealthy.
- Whoever was buried there was deeply, unquestionably loved.
For the first 2 years after that, the man who we came to know as Harry was there religiously, sitting for hours talking to the grave as if someone was there having a conversation with him. At times, I swore I heard laughter that did not come from Harry's mouth.
By the end of the fourth year, something shifted. Harry as usual came to visit "His" grave and settled down getting ready to do the long conversations. I was at my mother’s grave nearby when I heard a loud sob. I froze, hand stilling on a stubborn weed I was pulling. From the corner of my eye, I saw Harry shaking his head, tears running down his face, making anguished gestures.
“No, no, no… I can’t just go and never come back,” he muttered, voice cracking.
I tried not to stare. I didn’t want to intrude. But I was close enough to hear everything.
“What brought this on?”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Are my parents treating you well?”
The questions tumbled out of him, fast and desperate. The kind of questions you only ask someone you love—and someone you’ve lost.
I thought he might be mad. And maybe he was.
I might be too if what happened next was any indication.
The wind picked up—not wild, but gentle. Tender. It brushed against his cheek like it was offering comfort. His eyes fluttered closed, and he smiled, then let out a light, surprised laugh.
It was as if the wind kissed him.
“I know you’re right, Dray,” he whispered. “But I miss you so much. Hermione and Ron are trying to drag me to events, trying to get me back into life. But it’s not the same without you.”
His voice dropped lower, wistful.
“Even Pansy and Blaise stopped by. Wanted to know where I’ve been hiding you… if they can visit sometime.”
Harry leaned forward, pressing his forehead to the gravestone.
“I’m not sure I’m ready for anyone to know where you are, love.”
The wind flared—sharp, cold, and sudden. It whipped through the trees and slammed against his back.
Harry didn’t flinch. He laughed again.
“I know. I know. But not yet. I’m working on the album. It’s helping me heal. When it’s done… I think I’ll be ready.”
I watched, motionless.
That day, I learned Harry Potter wasn’t just someone mourning.
He was an artist.
And somehow, he could speak to the wind.
He said something—foreign, soft, maybe French or Latin—then stood and walked away without looking back.
Curious, I moved closer to the grave. The stone glistened. Water dripped down it, not from rain or melting snow.
It looked like tears.
What happened to the person buried here? And why did Harry bury them in a place so far from everyone they knew?
When I got home, I searched for Harry online.
Many results popped up, but after ten minutes of sifting, I found him.
Harry Potter.
At just 24, he was a global sensation in the music world—known for his soul-stirring lyrics, genre-bending sound, and a stage presence compared to legends like David Bowie and Prince. He debuted in 1998 with his breakout album Invisible Ink, which topped international charts and won him three Grammys, including Best New Artist. Two more platinum albums followed—Dark Light and Hallows—along with sold-out tours across Europe, the Americas, and Asia.
No scandals. No interviews about his private life. Just mystery and music.
But one detail stood out.
His fans were eagerly awaiting a long-anticipated album titled Going Home.
That caused me to pause.
All these years, I’d seen Harry enter the graveyard and whisper, “I’m home.”
Was the album about the person buried here?
A whole album dedicated to someone he loved and missed.
Watching Harry talk as if that person had never left reminded me how quick we are to accept our own mortality—but how unforgiving we are about the mortality of those we love. How selfish and unwilling we are to let go of those we hold dear to that country of no return.
The next time I saw Harry was one year later, in November.
He looked haggard, like not visiting the grave had worn him down. During that year, I had taken it upon myself to keep the grave clean—something he had always done with care. It was the first time I had looked closely at the gravestone.
Draco L. Malfoy Potter.
Did Harry have a brother?. Did he have a child?. Did he have a lover?
None of the google searches I did ever alluded to him having a sibling or any kids or even being in a relationship and any searches with the name Draco did not show up. It was as if this person never existed.
As usual, Harry whispered, “I’m home,” and sat by the grave. He didn’t stay long. He spoke for a while, a voice too soft for me to catch.
Then I heard:
“I’m getting there,” he said quietly. “November 16.”
And left, without a backward glance.
Was that the release date?
Would he finally tell his friends where Draco was buried?
November 16 was 2 weeks away.
November 16th arrived as a harsh winter day. Weather stations reported it as probably the coldest blizzard our small town and the world has ever seen. All roads were closed and due to the ice and businesses had shut down for the day. The radio in the living room was on some music station while I made myself a cup of coffee to see if I could give myself some warmth. The song stopped and the announcer's voice floated across the kitchen.
“At midnight, the long-anticipated album from Harry Potter was released—and fans are loving it. It’s already charted at #1 and may be the biggest album of his career.”
His co-host chimed in:
“That’s right. We reached out to Harry’s team for a post-release interview, but were told he’s taken a personal break. The album has this aching sense of grief… like someone deeply missed. Based on the note that opens the record, we might finally understand.”
He read aloud:
“If I had a flower for every time I thought of you, Draco Lucius Malfoy Potter, I could walk through my garden forever.”
A silence followed. Then:
“Without further ado, here’s the final track from Going Home—a song titled Eternity.”
As the notes and lyrics came through the radio on that cold November 16th, I thought back. Back to when I had first seen Harry and the years following up.
I’ve seen him there for years. Every day, like clockwork. He always came. Alone. Quiet. Steady. Like the world owed him silence for just a few hours.
To that grave in the far corner, nestled beside an empty grave, surrounded by flowers he planted. It was never unkempt. Not once. The stone is always clean, the grass trimmed, fresh flowers placed like offerings. Not just laid down — arranged, like he was building something sacred- a hideaway for two. Like it was treasure.
He treats it like something holy. And maybe it is.
And I’ve been there, standing quietly a few paces away, wondering if he’d ever notice me. But we don’t need to speak, not really. There’s a kind of understanding in silence, when you've both lost someone, the world doesn’t fully understand, but you don’t need anyone else to understand because you feel it. You live with it. Every day. I always recognized the weight in his shoulders — the quiet grief that doesn’t demand attention but refuses to leave.
When the first came on the radio, I listened without expecting much. Just curiosity, really. But halfway through the first verse, I realized something. It wasn’t just a song — it was him. It was that grave. It was the silence he wore like a second skin. The lyrics wrapped around something I didn’t know could be said out loud.
Then came the part that crushed me.
“It feels like an eternity / Since I had you here with me.”
And I cried.
Because it does feel like eternity.
Because no matter what people say, time doesn’t really heal. It just stretches the pain out. Softens it. Blurs the edges. But the ache stays.
“To be with you in paradise / What I wouldn’t sacrifice / Why’d you have to chase the light / Somewhere I can’t go?”
I think I always knew, deep down, that Eternity wasn’t just a song for Harry. It wasn’t about fame or heartbreak in the usual sense. It was the kind of loss no one can prepare you for. It was the kind of grief that shows up like a shadow at the edges of your life, and you just have to learn to walk with it.
I couldn’t stop the tears. Because damn it, Harry, I feel you.
I whispered to no one, “Thank you, Harry.”
Next time I see him at the grave, I might be able to say thank you again.
It was late in the evening, when a knock came on the door. I jolted awake from where I was asleep on the sofa and looked around. Who could be here at this time and in this weather? I stared questionably at the door and shuffled closer when a female voice broke through the door.
"Hello, anyone there?"
It followed by a male voice, "Are you sure, this is the right location Mione?"
An indignant huff was heard before the voice before snapped but
"Yes, I am sure Blaise. The spell said he's in this town and we've tried every other house except this one."
Spell?. Who was here?. What were they talking about?
"What would Harry be doing here?" another male voice piped up.
As if a long-distance wind blew across my mind, I remembered a conversation with Harry, mentioning friends who didn't know where Draco's body was.
He must have told them where the grave is. As I stood there trying to recall the names Harry mentioned, I heard feet shuffling away from the door. Thinking on my feet, I decided to risk it and threw the door open. Obviously, it was important if these people disregarded weather reports and were here looking for Draco.
"Are you looking for Draco?" I asked them to stop. They were already halfway down the stairs when I stepped outside.
4 heads and 8 eyes stared at me in shock.
"Draco is here?", the man who I had heard earlier asked running back up the stairs. His tall frame draped in dark, travel-worn robes. He looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks—maybe longer. Deep shadows clung beneath his eyes, and a weariness hung about him like a second skin. His hair was thick and tousled, falling into his face in unruly curls, and his posture, though upright, carried the weight of something unspoken. Despite the exhaustion etched into every line of his face, there was a striking handsomeness to him—sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and an intensity in his eyes that seemed to burn through the fatigue.
"My name is Blaise" he said "and these are Hermoine, Ron and Pansy" he continued pointing to his companions.
The three figures stood on the stairs, their expressions tight with purpose. The woman in front—sharp-eyed and wiry—had a mane of frizzy brown hair that had been hastily tied back, though strands escaped to frame her tired face. Her clothes were practical, and there was a certain rigidity in her posture that hinted at weeks of restless nights and relentless searching. Beside her, another woman walked with a more guarded grace; her dark hair was pulled into a sleek braid, and though her features were elegant—high cheekbones, narrowed eyes—there was something brittle in her expression, like glass held under too much pressure. The man trailing slightly behind them was tall and broad-shouldered, his red hair dulled the cold weather. Freckles dotted his pale face, which was tight with concern, and his tired blue eyes scanned the area with urgency.
Yes, these where the names Harry had mentioned to Draco.
"Yes" I nodded "Are you looking for him.”
"And also, Harry" Blaise said "His team haven't been able to get a hold of him him, and we thought he might be here".
Why this random town was the first place they thought of, I had no idea, but no one would even chance come out in this blizzard, and I told them as such.
"We understand but if Draco is truly here and with how closely he kept that secret, it means Harry would be here, he wouldn't miss their wedding anniversary for anything" The frizzy hair lady spoke up while the man behind her muttered a "Mione".
I wasn't sure if the idea of marriage made him uncomfortable or the fact that 'Mione' had told a random stranger that Harry Potter had been married to Draco Malfoy who was now dead and hidden away from everyone.
The earnest looks in their eyes and the confidence that yes Harry would be here was what made me bundle up and led the party of four to the graveyard at 8:00 PM on November 16th.
As we stepped into the graveyard, the world seemed to quiet. The wind no longer howled—it sang. Softly. Mournfully. Snow fell in slow spirals, blanketing everything in white, like a shroud pulled gently over the world.
They didn’t need me to lead them anymore.
Hermione was the first to spot him.
“There,” she whispered, voice trembling. Her footsteps faltered as she pointed toward the corner plot, her hand covering her mouth. The others followed, and I stayed behind, suddenly unsure if I belonged here at all.
Harry was there, just like they said he would be.
He sat leaning against the grave, his back curled slightly, as if he'd been listening. His head rested gently against the cold stone, one arm draped across the top of it, the other cradling something against his chest. A notebook, maybe. His fingers were curled around the edge, stiff with cold.
He looked peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Pansy was the first to run. “Harry!” Her voice cracked sharply across the graveyard. She skidded to her knees beside him and reached for his wrist. “No, no—Harry, please—”
Blaise was right behind her. Ron pulled Hermione close, and I could see his own shoulders shaking as she sobbed quietly into his chest.
“He's gone,” Blaise whispered, the words escaping him like breath in the cold. “He’s really gone.”
For a long while, no one moved. The wind curled gently around them, slowly and reverent. Like it was mourning too. Like it understood.
Then Blaise reached for the notebook Harry had clutched. Carefully, he opened it.
The first page was a letter. Written in that same elegant script Harry had used to sign fan autographs, only this time, it was meant for no one but the man beneath the earth.
"Draco,
The album is done. I told you I’d finish it. Every word in it is a piece of you. Of us. I hope I got it right. I hope they’ll finally understand what you meant to me—what you still mean."
"I’m so tired, love. So tired of waking up in a world you’re not in."
"But I’ll see you soon. I’m coming home."
The rest of the notebook was lyrics—unfinished lines, scribbled melodies, memories in ink. A songbook built on grief, devotion, and the kind of love most people never touch in a lifetime.
They buried Harry next to Draco three days later, just as the snow began to melt.
Word never got out how he died—not really. Some said it was an overdose, others a broken heart. But for me who had seen him, who had felt the air shift around him when he smiled at that grave, I knew.
He didn’t die of pain.
He died of love.
The kind that doesn’t fade. The kind that waits.
And now, two graves sit quietly side by side at the edge of the world, surrounded by wildflowers and guarded by the wind.
Every year, on November 16th, I still go there. I say nothing. I don’t need to. The wind carries the music.
And sometimes, if you listen closely, you can still hear them laughing.
Together.
Finally.