Apologies

Apologies

Chapter 2. Remorse

Hermione Granger fell back on the hospital bed, face contorting as she tried to keep the noxious potion down her throat. Irritated, she brushed her lips with the back of her hand - and froze.

Harry Potter kissed her there.

Well, technically, he hadn't kissed her.

He'd merely brushed his lips against her fingers ... the fingers that he'd held so briefly when he said goodbye, whispering "I'll see you later," as he prepared to leave the Hospital Wing with Professor Lupin.

For a brief moment, she felt a wave of sympathy consume her as she considered the potion she had drunk - vile, bitter, pungent ... she'd asked Madam Pomfrey if she could have some sugar or honey to take away the horrid taste, but the elderly nurse had replied, in a no-nonsense manner, that sugar would only neutralize the effects of the potion.

She remembered Harry explaining that sugar added to Wolfsbane Potion would neutralize its beneficial effects. And she remembered her mother's placid voice saying, "Anything that tastes bad is bound to have some good in it ... drink your medicine now, that's a dear."

She shuddered at the remembered taste, and wiped her lips again with her hand -- and felt her lips tingle as they brushed the spot where Harry ...

'I have got to stop thinking about that,' she thought. 'It doesn't mean anything ... Harry's just feeling sorry for himself - he must be feeling all guilty at everything that happened yesterday ...'

She flushed as she remembered staring into green eyes as his forehead touched hers, his hands on her shoulders, his breath touching her lips as he whispered in an aching voice, "I'm sorry, Hermione ... sorry for putting you through all these ... sorry for everything I've put you through ..."

She shivered in remembered pain as her mind brought back that terrible moment when Dolohov's wand with its blade of purple flame passed through her chest ... the searing pain that exploded within her ... her small "Oh!" of surprise at what had happened ... and the jumbled, painful thoughts in the moment before darkness embraced her: cursing her own stupidity at merely silencing her adversary rather than Stunning him, kicking herself for cheering Harry on like some ditzy fan-girl as he Petrified his opponent while she ignored her own, that painful wave of remorse at having to leave her best friend behind ...

How many times over the years had she found herself in that position - and in the same state of mind? Four times - five? Mentally, she counted them off in her head ... hugging Harry in the Potions room beneath the castle in first year before leaving to get help; hoping that Harry would figure out the clue she clutched in her hand just before she and Penelope Clearwater were Petrified by the basilisk in second year; her scream of helplessness as she watched Harry falling from fifty feet up when the Dementors showed up at the Quidditch game in third year; her shocked state as she realized that Harry and Cedric Diggory had disappeared in the maze last year ...

Those were the moments that stood out most in her mind - those were the instances where she had been unable to help her best friend. Against those, she could bring to mind others: the realization that Harry was in trouble as she watched his first Quidditch match, which ended when she'd set fire to Snape's robe ... the moment when she understood what Dumbledore was saying: that she had the means to save Sirius in third year ... the hours she'd spent coaching him in the Summoning Charm - and her sheer joy when he finally got the hang of it at one o'clock in the morning ...

But against that were all the other times when she was unable to help him including -

She rolled to her side and hugged her pillow tight, clamping her mouth down on it to stop from screaming as the memories of the battle in the Ministry of Magic gripped her - feeling again that sickening wave of regret as she realized that, once again, she would not be beside Harry as he fought his battle ...

'But why?' she thought. 'Why does it always have to be that way? Why should Harry always be left alone to fight his battles? I'm here ... we're here ... we have been with him ever since first year - why should he always be left alone to fight his demons?'

And another thought blasted through her mind, coming through loud and clear: why should she care?

What was it about her best friend that she had always been willing to go that extra mile for him? It wasn't just because of the troll in first year - if it were, she had paid him back for her life when she'd set fire to Snape's robes in that same year. It wasn't just Gryffindor recklessness or courage that led her to do whatever she could to help Harry ... it was something more.

Something like ...

She lifted her head and twisted around as she heard someone entering the Hospital Wing - and saw the Headmaster walk in, wand out and levitating a stretcher which bore the muddied, bloodied and bruised body of Dolores Umbridge, erstwhile High Inquisitor and Headmistress of Hogwarts.

She tried to sit up as she watched the woman brought to a bed across from her, Madam Pomfrey bustling around as she drew curtains around to shield the unfortunate woman from other eyes - and caught a momentary glimpse of Professor Dumbledore's grim but strangely sad face before he was cut off from view.

Rage flared - and she could feel her hands clench into shaking fists as another rush of memories coursed through the red haze of her mind - Umbridge's condescending manner during their DADA classes, the veiled threats and outright insults in class and outside, the Educational Decrees that had pushed them underground in order to learn DADA properly, but most of all - she remembered Harry's bleeding hand every time he came back from detention, and the faint lines 'I must not tell lies' etched on it when he'd removed his makeshift bandage.

She rolled to her side again, away from the covered hospital bed across from her own, closed her eyes tightly to shut away the painful memories even as she felt the tears once again spilling down her cheeks ...

"Are you all right, Miss Granger?"

She blinked her eyes open and tried to sit up, but was held back by a hand on her shoulder. "Headmaster!" she breathed, and winced as a sliver of pain lanced through her still-healing chest.

She watched, open-mouthed, as the old man Summoned pillows from the other beds and helped her to sit up, silently placing the pillows behind her back ... watched as he sat, his clear blue eyes now clouded with an air of deep sadness locking on her own, and she flushed.

"Professor Dumbledore ..."

He held up a hand and she fell silent, lowering her eyes but looking at him through her lashes as she heard him say, "Poppy tells me that you're doing quite well - although you do have some disagreements with the treatment she's been giving you?"

She gave him a tremulous smile and nodded, saw a twinkle flash in his eyes for a split second before disappearing again behind the sadness that seemed to draw a curtain across his face. Before she could respond, he said, "I understand that Harry has been in to see you?"

She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks and tried desperately to think of some way to distract attention from her blushing face, and felt her mouth dropping open as the old man continued, "How is he?"

The question was so unexpected that she blurted out the first thing that came to mind, "Haven't you seen him, sir?"

The old man cut his eyes away from her, his blue eyes seemingly locked on something of extreme interest over her head and she had to strain to hear his response: "I have, Hermione ... but I fear that, at the moment, Harry has some issues to deal with."

"Oh."

Dumbledore's eyes flicked briefly on her face before turning away again to look at something else - a look that was enough to tell him that she was thinking of Sirius and the impact that this would have on Harry. He felt relief washing through him for a moment as he realized that she didn't know about his ... disagreement with Harry; in the same instant, however, he felt a vague feeling of guilt as he once again confronted the decisions and missed opportunities that had led to this.

"He's still feeling guilty about Sirius, Professor. He's still blaming himself for what happened. He thinks he's failed ..."

Of course, he thought to himself. Harry would still feel guilty about it - in spite of the emotions he'd vented in his office, in spite of the explanations he'd been given and Dumbledore's own effort to take on some - no, not just some but all of the blame for what had happened - Harry would still feel guilt, would still think he was at fault.

And another wave of remorse passed through him.

In spite of everything he'd told Harry, the fact remained: he'd let his head rule, ignoring the increasingly frequent whispers of his heart that it was time to tell Harry everything. How many other flawed decisions had he made in the past year, he wondered, as he tried his best to prevent the doom that he knew was closing in? He should have taken the risk of teaching Harry himself; he should have trusted in the boy's capability and proven strength to keep Voldemort at bay ...

He should not have been afraid of the love and respect that the boy carried within him to win the day.

In other words, he should have trusted Harry Potter.

"... I'm sorry, Headmaster."

He blinked. He'd been so consumed by his thoughts that he had completely ignored the rambling voice of Hermione Granger - and he didn't know what it was she was apologizing for. He forced his mind back to the here-and-now and, as the girl rambled on, realized that she was berating herself for not making Harry listen to reason ... for not having had the strength of mind or character to have stopped Harry from his reckless course.

"I should have gone to a teacher, Headmaster. But who could I turn to? Professor McGonagall had gone to St. Mungo's, Hagrid was in hiding, Professor Flitwick and the others were not members of the Order ... but I should have talked to one of them, any of them! They may have been in touch with you ... they could have gotten in touch with you or someone!"

Her voice dropped to a whisper, "But I didn't ... I couldn't. Not with Harry so mad ... so ... so enraged ..."

He didn't have the heart to correct her, to remind her that Severus Snape was a member of the Order and that he would have a way to get in touch with him. But he could not blame her - not after what Harry had said. They'd never had enough reason to trust Severus; nothing but his word that Professor Snape could be trusted ... and after the debacle that was Harry's Occulumency lessons -

And that, he realized, was another major blunder on his part.

Whoever said that only a teacher could teach?

If he had wanted Harry to learn Occulumency, what better way (aside from having Severus teach him) than to have Hermione coach him?

He could have taught Hermione, and she could have taught Harry. There would have been no conflict, no past that would have come between them. And he knew Hermione could do it, as he recalled tiny Professor Flitwick bouncing around after the First Task, telling all and sundry of his surprise that Harry - who had never shown any aptitude for the Summoning Charm (and had, in fact, been burdened with additional homework) -- had, literally, mastered it overnight.

And Minerva McGonagall, a slight smile on her lips as she returned from escorting Harry to the Champion's tent, saying in a sly voice: "Perhaps Miss Granger has something to do with it" - something he already knew, as the portraits in the Gryffindor common room reported at 1:30 in the morning, the day of the first task.

More importantly, he'd been thinking that Harry should start Occulumency lessons from the day of the hearing in the Ministry of Magic but he'd postponed it ... because he thought there was time ...

Time.

"What we need," he'd said slowly, and his light blue eyes moved from Harry to Hermione, "is more time."

This very room ... and perhaps, this very bed -- except that Harry was not in the other bed - in their third year. He'd been desperate for a way out, to find a means to save Sirius from the certain fate that awaited him - and he suddenly realized that the thirteen-year old Miss Granger had the answer, literally, in her hands.

He'd trusted her to understand ... trusted the two of them to rescue Sirius without his help ... trusted Hermione to guide Harry properly.

So why hadn't he trusted her now?

Why hadn't he trusted them this time around?

He felt his body slumping lower in his chair, his head hunching into his shoulders as he listened to Hermione's recriminations - and he looked away, his own guilt beginning to bore into his soul ...

And caught sight of Ronald Weasley, asleep in the other bed.

He lowered his head even further on his chest, feigning interest in Hermione's rambling ... but in truth, wanting to hide his pain-filled eyes from her, to keep his own recriminations and regrets from the world.

He hadn't been altogether truthful with Harry ...

"I feel I owe you another explanation, Harry," he'd said hesitantly, in his room earlier that day. "You may, perhaps, have wondered why I never chose you as a prefect? I must confess ... that I rather thought ... you had enough responsibility to be going on with."

But that wasn't all of it, was it?

He blinked - startled out of his somber mood as Hermione suddenly flung a pillow at the curtained bed across from her, behind which rested Dolores Umbridge in a potion-induced sleep.

As he opened his mouth to murmur a reproach, her angry but strangely controlled voice cut through his bothered mind: "I was hoping that Ron would help me ... that he will support me when I was trying to make Harry listen to reason ... he was a bloody Prefect, for crying out loud! But no, oh no ... he always supported Harry ... or he would leave me hanging, wouldn't even support me ..."

She suddenly turned to him, a fierce glare in her eyes: "Why did you have to make him a Prefect, Professor? He doesn't have the right attitude to be a Prefect ... he wouldn't even help me discipline the Twins ... he would just let them be, let them experiment on the first years ..."

Hermione fell silent and looked away, and he could only reply, "I thought it was for the best, Miss Granger. Like so many things that have happened to Harry ... to this school ... I thought it was for the best."

He could feel her reproachful look even though his head was bowed -- and he sighed. Though it pained him to repeat himself, there was nothing else to say, no way to explain his reasons and decisions except: "I thought ... it was for the best."

His eyes, beneath their bushy eyebrows, swept from the angry Hermione Granger to the still-asleep Ron Weasley.

The Mirror of Erised could do more than reflect back the deepest desires of the person looking at it. He'd used his knowledge to make it the final hideout of the Philosopher's Stone, knowing as he did so that only a person with a pure heart and unselfish intentions would be able to access the stone.

But more than that ... someone with a powerful will and the knowledge to do so could see what anyone who had looked in the Mirror would see. He'd known that Harry could see his parents and other relatives in the Mirror - which was why he'd allowed Harry to keep coming back until he felt that it was doing more harm than good.

But he'd also seen Ron Weasley's aspirations in the Mirror - and worried.

Fame and fortune - in their own way, as insidious a disease as fortune and eternal life which, as he'd told Harry, were two of the things that were the worst for people, but the two things they would most often seek. Voldemort was the same way, although his obsession was eternal life - fortune would follow his dominance of the wizarding world.

But Ronald Weasley was different. Dumbledore could understand Ron's obsession with fame - being the youngest in a family of achievers would make one wish for his own place in the sun. He'd been concerned then, but had passed it off as being a youthful thing ... something that time and maturity would change.

Until the Goblet of Fire named Harry as a Triwizard champion - and he learned of the rift that developed among the three friends as a result of that event.

He sighed to himself as he remembered that year. He'd kept a close eye on both boys in the weeks after the announcement, unsure of how this would affect Harry's state of mind - and his capability to survive the Tournament. He'd been relieved to see them make up at the conclusion of the First Task, amused as he learned of the fumbling attempts of both boys to find a date for the Yule Ball - and felt a smile breaking out (which he quickly suppressed) as he remembered the look on Harry's face when he realized that the pretty girl that Viktor Krum was escorting was none other than his best friend of three and a half years.

It was amusing, he thought then, to see the look of abject shock and sudden realization that came over Harry's face - but the amusement had turned to concern when he saw Ron's thunderous face as he walked past them without even a look at the third member of their unstoppable team.

He remembered his dismay as the portraits in his office had gossiped among themselves about the screaming match witnessed in the Gryffindor Common Room that same night -- his relief when the incident seemingly died a natural death the following day, and the Trio appeared to remain intact.

He took a deep breath - and mentally added his decision to make Ron a prefect to the now-long list of regrets that this past year had brought him. He'd thought he was doing the right thing - relieving Harry of the pressure of Prefect duties while giving his best friend a chance to shine on his own.

Also, he had hoped that the time spent with Hermione Granger would imbue Ron Weasley with both confidence and a better sense of responsibility and reliability.

And perhaps, something more ...

But it was not to be. He should have seen it ... he should have realized it, the day Harry arrived at No. 12 Grimmauld Place - and Phineas Nigellus gleefully told him how a near-bouncing Hermione Granger lunged at Harry Potter, and nearly strangled the latter to death, so tight was her hug around the neck of the clueless boy.

He should have realized the fact: for Hermione Granger, there was no other person quite like Harry Potter.

From the depths of his mind, a silvery figure arose - a young man in a leather flight jacket, leaning back in his chair in a hotel room in New York over fifty years ago, listening quietly as Dumbledore ranted at the difficulty of making people see the truth that was staring them in the face.

The young man had smiled and remarked, "Voici mon secret, mon ami. Il est très simple: on ne voit bien qu'avec le coeur. L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux."

"Professor?"

Startled, he looked up to see the tear-streaked face of Hermione Granger staring at him in surprise. Before he could ask what was wrong, she spoke: "Have you read 'The Little Prince,' too?"

His surprise was so profound that he was at a momentary loss for words; he knew that Hermione Granger was fond of books - but he'd never expected her to have read, much less be familiar, with St-Ex's most famous - and most profound - work.

"Oh." Hermione turned away from him, embarrassed at having disturbed his thoughts. "I thought ... what you just said ... it sounded familiar."

He continued to stare at her for a moment before responding, "It must have made quite an impression on you, Miss Granger."

She felt the beginnings of a blush creep up her face. In truth, she had been enthralled with the book ever since she was little ... at first, intrigued by the wonderful drawings it contained; as she grew older, she had read and re-read the book, and had even insisted on visiting St-Exupery's home during her family's trips to France.

She felt her chest constricting as a suddenly awakened corner of her mind revealed the funny little fox with long ears telling her: "Go and look again at the roses. You will understand now that yours is unique in all the world. Then come back to say goodbye to me, and I will make you a present of a secret."

All those years, she had gone back and again to that chapter - read and re-read the passage where the Little Prince came to his epiphany about his rose: "You are not at all like my rose," he said. "As yet you are nothing. No one has tamed you, and you have tamed no one. You are like my fox when I first knew him. He was only a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But I have made him my friend, and now he is unique in all the world."

But the book, along with so many other things in her life before Hogwarts, had fallen away as she became focused on other things: striving to become the top student in all her classes and determined to help Harry, worrying about her exams and Harry, concerned about House-Elves and Harry, absorbing everything she could about her new world - and worrying about Harry ...

She had become so immersed in her life as a witch, she had become so obsessed with matters of great consequence, that she had forgotten the companion of her childhood years but - she now realized -the lessons taught by the fox were never really forgotten.

And as the remembered words flowed through her mind, she could not help but feel the Little Prince's emotions as he talked to the roses: "You are beautiful, but you are empty. One could not die for you. To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you-- the rose that belongs to me. But in herself alone she is more important than all the hundreds of you other roses: because it is she that I have watered; because it is she that I have put under the glass globe; because it is she that I have sheltered behind the screen; because it is for her that I have killed the caterpillars (except the two or three that we saved to become butterflies); because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing. Because she is my rose."

She heard the Headmaster quoting in a low, quiet voice, another line from that almost-forgotten book: "It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important ... You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed. You are responsible for your rose ..."

'Yes,' she thought to herself. 'He is my Harry - he is the person that I have cared for, watched over, worried about ... fought for all these years. But ... what about him? What does he see, what would he remember, what would he think that would make him think of me as his Hermione?'

She fought back a sob as the insidious thought coursed through her mind: through all those years, it had been from her to him -- in the same way that The Little Prince had cared for, watered, and watched over his rose. And, while Harry had never shown the petty vanities and sheer egocentricity of the rose, she had been subject to much of what the Little Prince had gone through on his tiny planet - and the past year, she realized, must have been what the Little Prince went through before he decided to take a journey and leave his rose behind ...

The tears spilled from her eyes, and she turned away ... unaware that Dumbledore had also turned away from her to hide the tears that had sprung out on his. They stared at separate corners of the hospital wing, each sunk in their thoughts as they contemplated the words written by a young man so much like themselves ... unaware that, in the other bed, another young man had rolled to his side, facing away from them, unwilling to speak up and trying his best to be unobtrusive, to hide the tears that had started to fall from his eyes ...

With a weary sigh, the aged Headmaster of Hogwarts swiped at his eyes and bowed his head, pained as another line from the book that Antone de St.-Exupery had given him blasted through his mind: "Don't you see -- I am very busy with matters of consequence!"

"No, St.-Ex," he thought to himself. "I am not like that businessman that your Little Prince met ... I have smelled the flowers, I have looked at the stars, I have never kept myself in my room adding up figures and telling everyone who passes by, 'I am busy with matters of consequence'!"

"True," the pilot in his mind shot back, "you haven't done it all the time - but once is often too much."

A mocking smile, and then, "Typical grownup."

And to that statement, he had no reply.

"Professor," and he turned back to Hermione's low, almost whispered voice, "do you think ... do you ever wonder ... if he understands?"

For a moment, he didn't comprehend her meaning. His first reaction, quickly suppressed, was to say "Yes," thinking that she was talking of Antone de-St. Exupery and his uncommon understanding of grownups and their ways; in the next, he wanted to say "No," because Voldemort - no matter his powers and his knowledge - was too consumed by past hatreds and future dreams to even recognize or acknowledge the power of love.

And then he realized that she was talking about Harry Potter.

They had never been friends at the start, he thought. Harry's closest friend had been Ron Weasley - until that Halloween night when a corrupted teacher had lured a troll into the castle to create a diversion. He had never asked what it was that made Harry go after the little girl in the bathroom rather than talk to a Prefect or a teacher ...

But he had never asked what it was that made an eleven-year old girl tag along after two boys heading for a midnight duel - or to lead an obsessed, biased but ultimately incompetent teacher into the Forbidden Forest without a clear-cut plan, if only to stop the said incompetent from casting the Cruciatus Curse on her friend.

He looked into the brown eyes of Hermione Granger, tears sparkling in eyes that held a mixture of hope and pain - and spoke from the heart, quoting from the book they had both loved and seemingly forgotten: "And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: it is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye."

Hermione turned her face away from him, unwilling to let him see her tears. She knew what he was telling her ... understood the meaning behind his words, but wondering whether she would be willing to wait; wondering if, like the Little Prince, she had to undertake a journey away from Harry - and, in her leaving, make him realize what he'd had in front of him the whole time.

But, in the next moment or the same instant, she wondered if it would be Harry who would have to leave her. She didn't need to go on a journey to realize what Harry meant to her - it was Harry who often seemed clueless as to what she meant to him. But, and she realized this as another ache sliced through her chest ... it may well be that she didn't mean anything to him.

Unthinking, she brushed at her eyes and felt, once again, that tingling sensation in her fingers where Harry had brushed his lips before he left with Professor Lupin - and she closed her eyes to see his blazing green eyes locked with her own, felt his skin touching her forehead, smelled his breath on her lips as he whispered, "I'm sorry, Hermione ... sorry for putting you through all these ... sorry for everything I've put you through ..."

She felt something pressing into her hand and she blinked her eyes open to see a snow-white handkerchief being pressed into her hands by Professor Dumbledore. She looked up into his light-blue eyes, now devoid of their trademark twinkle because of the burden of regrets and recriminations he now carried, and listened to his quiet voice:

"In the fullness of time, Miss Granger ... in the fullness of time, I believe that even Harry will understand." He paused for a beat, and continued: "After all, love does not consist in gazing at each other but in looking outward together in the same direction."

She bowed her head at his words - and both looked up at the sound of a tray being rattled. Hermione's face blanched, and she could feel her stomach heave and roil as it desperately tried to fight its way out of her body and find a place to hide from the approaching Madam Pomfrey and the smoking goblet on the tray she was carrying.

Hermione heard a small chuckle and turned her glare on the now-amused Headmaster. Before she could even say a word, Dumbledore had reached into a pocket of his robes and pulled out a bag of lemon drops.

"Headmaster!" Madam Pomfrey protested - but was stopped by his raised hand.

"Lemon drops are not all sugar, Poppy," he told her. With a side glance and a smile at Hermione, he continued, "Besides, they're sugar-free. Miss Granger's parents were kind enough to send me some every once in a while."

Hermione's "Oh!" of surprise was swiftly followed by Madam Pomfrey's "Hem, hem" of disapproval. The Headmaster and the student looked at each other and smiled - both of them shaking their heads at the same time.

The old man prepared to take his leave. He had walked over to the child's bed with no other thought than to make sure that she was all right, and to try and assuage some of his remorse by finding out whether Harry was feeling better after seeing his friends.

Instead of guilt and regret diminished, he'd had to confront the words of an old friend. And in remembering, he was brought back to that moment in his office when, in telling Harry everything, he'd had to admit to forgetting the advice of that now gone old friend, lost somewhere in the Mediterranean but, he hoped, now sharing the joys of a sunrise on Asteroid B-612:

"Harry, I owe you an explanation," he'd said, earlier that day. "An explanation of an old man's mistakes. For I see now that what I have done, and not done, with regard to you, bears all the hallmarks of the failings of age. Youth cannot know how age thinks and feels. But old men are guilty if they forget what it was to be young ... and I seem to have forgotten, lately ... "

He bowed his head again, feeling the remorse course through his body and his mind, regretting once again his failure to trust and to remember what it was like to be young. St.-Ex had warned him about that, so many years ago, but the years and the battles since had overshadowed the memories ... and he was now left to deal with the consequences.

"Professor," and he looked up to see Hermione Granger looking at him. Before he could say a word, she continued in her schoolgirl French: "Quant à l'avenir, votre tâche n'est pas à forsee il, mais le rendre capable."

He looked at her for a long moment, translating the words in his head - and smiled. He quietly handed her the bag of sugar-free lemon drops and, as she took it, gave her hand a small squeeze of understanding - wondering what it was that bound these two together in so many infinitesimal ways and knowing, in the same instant, that there would be no need to ask - but simply accept and trust them to do what had to be done.

As he stepped out of the Hospital Wing, he squared his shoulders and prepared to face the world he had helped build, and softly repeated to himself the words that his old friend told him as he took his leave, so many years ago - the same words that Hermione Granger had just now reminded him of: "As for the future, your task is not to forsee it, but to enable it."

He had done what he could; the rest would now be up to them.