If You Have Died…

By: Ovid's Muse

Rating: PG (Due to subject matter)

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, by JK Rowling, or the Poem 'Forgive Me', by Pablo Neruda. I do own the idea behind this poem, though I give a nod to the Alan Rickman movie, 'Truly Madly Deeply'.

Authors notes: Yes, I do have a person in mind, but I won't tell. Feel free to email me and tell me who you think loves Harry so. There are two versions of this story. Thanks to my beta, Caytin and Alexa

Song inspiration: X-Japan's 'Forever Love'.

Forgive me….

It was cold. The type of cold that bites through every layer of clothing, to cut into one's skin. A cold that could sink into one's soul and make a home there. Snow covered everything, and instead of making the place look pure and new…the snow made it all bleaker.

More than the cold, more than the snow gently falling, was the hard stone all around. Morbid markers to the dead. The stones gave no warmth, no comfort at all. No true mark of what was buried below. Chiseled words meant nothing; they couldn't possibly describe the dead in the space given.

Especially not this dead.

If you are not living

If you beloved, my love, if you have died..

Feet crunched in the snow, walking closer to the stone. To a muggle it would have been an ordinary grave stone sitting under a willow tree. They would only read the words:

Harry Potter



Taken too soon.

The muggle version, while saying nothing of his great deeds, triumphs, or laurels, in its simplicity seemed to describe the Boy That Lived with much more clarity.

A mouth smirked at that, as the owner of it kneeled to brush the snow from the stone with a gloved hand. The other hand gripped seventeen perfect roses.

"I miss you."

All the leaves will fall on my breast

It will rain on my soul all night all day

It had been almost a year, a cold, empty, lifeless year. A tear trickled down a cheek, leaving a path of ice in its wake. The hard, desperate sobs of new grief rarely visited now. Though days would still be spent sitting and thinking of him.

"I miss you so much."

There were times when it seemed he was there. Turn around quick enough, and there he would be. His broom sat in its case in the bedroom, where Harry had left it. Still open. As if closing it would truly mean he was never coming back.

My feet will want to march to where you are sleeping…

"I wake up screaming sometimes and reach for you…"

His robes were still in the closet. His glasses on the nightstand. As long as those things were there…he might come back.

"I love you so much…. I long for you…just one last touch…one last I love you."

My feet will want to march to where you are sleeping

But I shall go on living

"But you won't be coming back."

That morning the glasses had been packed away, and the robes given away.

"I won't be coming to see you for a while. I'm moving out of the flat. Need a fresh start."

The roses were placed on the grave.

"I'll always love you…I'll always miss you…"

The feet crunched in the snow, walking away from the stone.

My feet will want to march to where you are sleeping…

Harry's broom case had been closed.

But I shall go on living…