Disclaimer: Well hello there! Glad to see you reading. Happily, you must know already that I am not the mastermind behind Harry Potter, so I will not have to tell you!

Author's Note: I'm Baaaaaack. Hope you all enjoyed my last story, "The Writing on the Wall," and if you haven't, but you like this one – check it out! I'm quite proud of it! Anyways, please enjoy!

Ginny and Hermione weren't the only ones watching Harry nearly spring out of the top box at the Quidditch World Cup for the Veela. Ron and Fred and George weren't the only three to watch Harry's inevitable failure with Cho Chang. Neville and Luna weren't the only two to watch Harry's obsessive and thoroughly impossible lust for Ginny Weasley.

Two others were standing by, watching the boy as he grew, loved and befriended. They watched him in detention, on a broomstick in the library. They watched him comfort, be comforted and become angry. They saw him try, fail and try again.

This is not unusual behaviour for parents. But Harry Potter's parents were different.

They were dead.

Lily and James Potter were not ghosts. They had passed that open gateway and gone through the other.

If a dead person does not want to become a ghost, does not want to live among the living, they take the other route. You latch yourself onto a living person and you follow him or her through their life. You cannot live through them, but you can delight in their living.

Understandably, Lily and James Potter wanted to watch their son, Harry Potter, grow up. It was the closest they would ever get to their beloved child.

Harry James Potter was never as alone as he sometimes thought himself to be. His parents, after all, were looking after him.