The First Tear

THE FIRST TEAR

Harry must have seen the first tear fall; maybe more than one. It had been the wrong moment. He had wanted to vent the first stinging shock of his new loss as the not yet mature always do--in anger, violence even. That’s why my floor is littered with little silver cogs, wheels, and springs. I had thought at first that he would attack me. I would have deserved it, but I asked him to hear me out, so that for the first time he would understand. Nor can I say that I would have truly minded being atacked. It might have been a welcome diversion from the pain of my own breaking heart. Not so much for Sirius himself; he died as a hero, as he had always wished. And even Harry must recognize later that though the wizarding world has come to accept the truth of Lord Voldemort’s return, there can still be no unquestionable evidence as to the truth of Black’s story as long as Pettigrew wishes to live. It is for Harry that my heart is breaking, for his loss and for the burden which I have! just laid upon him.

My tears came when I finally told him why I had not made him a prefect. That had been a hard blow for a boy, I knew it even then, and my reason at the time was even trifling, that he had enough to be going on with. It had turned out for the best. How could he have managed with Dolores Umbridge trying to run the school if he had been a prefect. He will understand this later when he is calmer, maybe after he has discussed it with his friends. But today was not the right time to have told him. He could not accept it now, nor the first sign of my weeping. He just stood up and walked out of the office.

At another time, when he was younger, he would have behaved differently, would have been solicitous perhaps, certainly concerned at the least. And maybe when he becomes a little more mature, he will look on me more kindly, more compassionately. This is what I need.

But now ... he just stood up and walked out of the office.

How can this young wizard, hardly old enough to have much to look back to, and for whom the future stretches infinitely long, how could he understand that my heart breaks for him whether I look back or ahead? I think of how much suffering my choices have already caused him and how much more lies ahead until he learns what will be required to defeat Lord Voldemort.

And what has brought me to tears? Not that I had failed to give him the prophecy after the Tri-Wizard Tournament when I should have. That he had just seen his friend die was a lame excuse, indeed. I had plenty of opportunities to tell him. I could have talked to him in the hospital wing later, could have visited the Dursleys or taken him aside in Sirius Black’s house.

No, what made me give way to foolishly timed weeping was when I remembered how pained he had been not to have been chosen as a prefect, though he new perfectly well that he had earned it. But he had not wanted to admit that I cared for him because recognizing the bond between us would have pushed him to ask for my help as to how to go forward, how to accept yet one more loss and begin to deal with the inevitable conflict with its uncertain outcome. He is not ready to recognize how much I care for him or how much he has come to care for me. He cannot move forward while this burning gaping wound occupies his whole heart. He just stood up and walked out of the office.

I must get along now, must repair the broken things. Minerva will be returning and she is more ill than she knows. She is expected to heal, that is, if all goes well and we are given another respite before the final battle, but now she would be too greatly stressed by seeing all of these valuable and ancient instruments of detection strewn about my floor in pieces. Or perhaps Remus will come, grieving again and for the final time over the loss of his friend, yet concerned above all for Harry. He would be embarrased, even ashamed that Harry has done this. I must not burden them any mmore than they already are burdened. I will repair the things. It will only require one flick of my wand, one incantation, one little word, and all of the broken things will be returned to their prior wholeness. Magic is so trifling, generally. With one quick spell we can reverse what we have destroyed, restore our things to pristine wholeness. Not so with our hearts. I must repair the things, it ! will take but a moment, I will do it--as soon as I stop weeping.

Harry could not bear to hear me say anything less than laudatory about Sirius. he is just beginning to build the hallowed place in his heart for his Sirius, not the complicated, loving, brash, sometimes misguided wizard whom we all new, but his own image of Sirius. Within this special chamber this Sirius will dwell and will heal Harry’s broken heart. Then the light from this inner shrine will lead him to the first acts of kindness, of thoughtfulness, of consideration, of love even. Then there will be willing sacrifice, which is what will be necessary to overcome Lord Voldemort. This will come, I am sure. The time will come when Harry will understand me, will forgive me, will see me as the loving Headmaster and surrogate grandfather that I have been for him, and will love me as such. The day will surely come when he will walk back into this office and just sit down.

Then we will be friends and I will be comforted. I have waited a long time for this. I can wait till then.