I saw him.

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Sneaking into my shop. The Chosen One. The Boy Who Lived. Undesirable Number One. All he took was a tin of food. He even left some money.

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He was so thin, so pale. I wanted to offer him more food—to tell him to take as much as he needed. But I didn't want to scare him away, like some wild animal come to my back garden. I wanted him to feel safe enough to return.

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But he didn't.

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Months later, I heard on the wireless that he died for us, and then he came back from the dead to avenge us, to free us.

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I wish I had told him. I wish I had given him more.

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He needed to be fed.

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He was hungry and he saved us.

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He saved me.

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But after a week had gone by, and he didn't return, I went there. To where it started.

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He wasn't coming back to my shop, so I went to Godric's Hollow, and at the house, on the sign that rose from the tangled vines, I wrote with everlasting ink,

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"If you read this, Harry, we're all behind you!"

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I wanted to feed him food, but settled for feeding him hope.

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Maybe he saw it.

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Maybe he was fed.