The Sorrows of a Misguided Man

     --The Sorrows of a Misguided Man--

“You haven’t got a clue,” you say when I try to tell you not to be ashamed of your feelings. “You don’t know. . .” you insist, and I can hear your voice trembling with sadness and anger. I wish you would look at me, so I could know which emotion is most strongly ruling you. . . . Although, in reality, I know there is so much more anger than sadness in you. But still your face is turned towards the window, probably examining the Quidditch pitch, examining your past kingdom of dreams and freedom, the kingdom you lost this year.

And what do I say when you say I do not understand? For you are right, and there is nothing that I can do to fix my lack of insight. But there are things I am sure of now: I know that wizards and witches need to leave behind prejudices; I’m sure Severus Snape will be perpetually loyal to me; I would bet my life that the Weasleys’ joke shop will flourish; I know so much; I am surely the most respected wizard alive; and I even experienced much of what you are going through when I was forced to battle my own dark nemesis, yet I don’t have a clue. Too many years have passed since I struggled for my own identity and was faced with the grave challenge, know as growing up. Then, when I did not tell you that Voldemort would try to posses you or alter your mind and senses, I lost my last link with you: your trust. And what am I to do now? I could apologize, and I would apologize until the last remains of life abandoned my wretched body, if I even suspected it would ease your pain or regain any trust of yours. Oh, but I know it won’t: Sirius is dead, and I have deliberately lied to you. So I calmy ask this question: “What don’t I know?”

Calmly. I have come to be very good at that in my old age: act calm, and that is precisely what I do: act. My face is serene, yet my mind is electrified, desperate that you understand why tonight happened, and somehow forgive me. If anything, I have learned to mask my emotions in the one-hundred-forty-three years of life I have spent on this Earth. And, in time, you will also learn to be calm.

But calm is not for you now, and I see you shaking, and it is rage, I note as you turn to face me, gathered at your face, not sadness. And then you say you do not want to address the issue: “I don’t want to talk about how I feel, all right?” Oh, but Harry, how will I know what you feel - those complex emotions, far beyond “sadness,” “anger,” or “guilt,” - if you do not wish to speak of them? And speak of them you must! It will be your savior, Harry, to speak of how you feel. Emotion is the most human of all aspects of life, and pain is the most real.

“Harry, suffering like this proves you are still a man! This pain is part of being human -”

And I’ve failed you, Harry, I’ve failed you beyond the limits of my imagination. I know what words are about to come out of your mouth before your lips even twitch, and how can I blame you for saying them or feeling them? “THEN I DON’T WANT TO BE HUMAN!” you bellow, shattering one of my silver instruments before I even realize which one it is. You don’t want to be human. You don’t want to feel or love or smile or laugh. You don’t want to be human. And how true I know it is! I’ve failed you, Harry, because you don’t want to be human. The pain you feel overwhelms all the happiness you’ve ever experienced, and I am sorry.

Sorry, and I know my apology won’t matter, or even help. Because you don’t want to be human.

And, oh! How my heart aches for you - your small frame, full of tension and rage - and how I want to cradle your pale face, even as it frightens the old portraits hanging upon the walls. “I DON’T CARE,” you yell, when Armando comments on your behavior. “I’VE HAD ENOUGH, I’VE SEEN ENOUGH, I WANT OUT, I WANT IT TO END, I DON’T CARE ANYMORE!”

The words slip from your mouth, things you have felt for so long, yet did not realize or acknowledge. Despite that you’ve had enough, and seen enough, and want out, and desire it all to end from the depths of your abused heart, you do care. And I want to wrap my arms around you, and let you scream and rant, but I have to sit in my chair, and stay calm. It is what I do. I stay calm.

And you care, and so do I, so I must bury my feelings, for hugging you, loving you, would not be acceptable. I must stay calm, for you, for Sirius’s memory, for the Wizarding world, for myself. I must stay calm.

And you say I don’t understand, but I understand this. I understanding caring, for I care for you, Harry; I care for you so much. But I can’t show it, just as you can’t show you care, and you can’t show you feel.

I have to save you, I know. I have to save you from yourself, myself, and what you may come to be. I need to force you to open to emotions and the magnificent act of feeling, for I have closed myself to it, making sure I hide any emotion I feel. But it has been a mistake; a mistake I will not let you reenact. For so long I have cared, Harry, and have not shown it, so I will not let you insist you do not care, when it is so obvious you do. So albeit I burry my emotions further, I go on: “You do care,” I say, “You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it.”

Then, even though I am sure you will resist and deny, I know it is true. You care so much, and it hurts so much, that you feel you are bleeding to death. And I know this. I understand this. I care for you, Harry, and it hurts. It hurts like I’m bleeding.

Then for half a moment, an instant, which barely exists, yet is comparable to the longest moments in eternity, I see the surprise in your face - in your eyes. All the pain, anger, and guilt is there for a moment, and you are so startled by what I have said. Watching you cringe, and then straighten and blink, I see you are determined. Determined not to feel, determined to insist you do not care. But I know, Harry, I know because I feel and I care; I know, because even the shortest moments are long in eternity. I do not know what it is that you feel, Harry, but I know that you do feel.

The blink ends the moment, though, and you create a defense, which pulls at all that you feel, hoping that it will dispel any emotion that you think you should not have; emotion you do not want to have. “I DON’T,” you roar, so loudly that my eyebrows twitch, and I can feel all the old headmasters shuffling in their portraits.

“Oh yes, you do,” I insist. “You have now lost your mother, your father, and the closest thing to a parent you have ever known. Of course you care.” I’m so sorry, because I can feel my words stamping pain in your heart, but I need to make you feel, and if you are mad, you feel.

“YOU DON’T KNOW HOW I FEEL! YOU STANDING THERE --YOU,” But I’m leaning, Harry, not standing, and I know I do not know how you feel, but you do feel. I know you feel, and you need to know also.

And there it is: I see the flicker in your eye, the twitch in your stance; know you feel now. You know you care, because you’ve just admitted it to yourself, somewhere in your glorious mind. So I can see the second of horror in your eyes, until its gone, and now there’s desperation. Desperation because screaming at an emotionless man, and smashing replaceable trinkets around my old office won’t help anymore. You know you feel and care, but now you don’t want to, so you have to run. But the movement will only open the wound further, Harry, and you will still bleed for Sirius, your mother, your father - for yourself - if you are out of my office, out of Hogwarts, or even out of Europe.

You are bleeding, Harry, and I know you know it. But I also know running will not help it - leaving will not squash the emotions out of you, so you must stay. You are in pain, but you must understand.

As you clutch at the door, and though your body slams against it, it does not budge, for I will not let you run. “Let me out,” you say, with rage casting tremors through your body. Its is not a request either, but a demand from the violated to the violator.

“No,” I say, still calm.

And I see you have grown. In the past fifteen minutes, you have become a man, and now you will challenge me. For a moment your eyes stare into mine, trying to read what I am thinking, but I am closed, Harry, you should know that. I don‘t let you see me feel. And as you read that I am emotionless, I read that you are so full of life and feeling. But my eyes flicker to Fawkes, and I have broken the stare.

“Let me out,” you repeat.

But I still must make you understand, so I say no again.

“If you don’t -- if you keep me in here -- if you don’t let me--”

What will you do, Harry? You will storm through my office, feeling and caring, and hurting inside, and I will have triumphed. So I will keep you in here. “By all means continue destroying my possessions,” I say. “I daresay I have too many.” Oh, very calm I am, indeed; I can even crack tiny jokes, but I still need you to stay and understand.

I am scared right now. I am so scared because it is time for you to understand, and if you are upset with me now, what I will tell you will cause you to hate me. And the trust you still have in me, or any chance of forgiveness you may currently posses will disappear when I have finished. So I am scared. For I care for you, Harry, even if I can not show you. Thus, when you tell me, once more, to let you out, I refuse. “Not until I have my say,” I insist.

I know it is not fair, I know that I do not deserve for you to listen to my explanations, but it is important for you to know. You care, Harry, and feel. You feel guilty, and surely believe you are at fault for Sirius’s death, and will believe so in the future, but I must make you see differently. I tell you now, and later you will the realize the truth, and, then, I will have saved you twice: from indifference; from misplaced guilt. I can not make you forgive me, but I can still save you.

“Do you -- do you think I want to -- do you think I give a --I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU’VE GOT TO SAY!” And there’s our word, Harry. You do care what I have to say, because you feel. But you insist: “I don’t want to hear anything you’ve got to say!”

Of course you don’t want to hear what I have to say, Harry, but you do care, and you need to know, so I will have to catch your curiosity. “You will,” I state, allowing a bit of remorse in my voice, “Because you are not nearly as angry with me as you ought to be. If you are to attack me, as I know you are close to doing, I would like to have thoroughly earned it.”

And I’ve caught you, Harry. You’re curious, just as you always were. “What are you talking - “

And so I take my chance. I am at fault, I tell you. Sirius is dead because of me. My mistakes, my misgivings, and my overlookings. And finally, Harry, you sit down, and I can explain. I tell you I did not think how it felt to be in your situation, or Sirius’s situation. I tell you how I long ago suspected that you had a connection with Voldemort. I tell you that Voldemort was, in the end, able to prod at your mind. But then I tell you things you did not know. I tell you I was afraid Voldemort would strike us both through your connection with him. I tell you I was determined to distance you from myself. I tell you Voldemort wanted to posses you, in hopes of my surrender of your life. I tell you about the deception of Kreacher. I tell you I trust Severus Snape. I tell you it was a mistake to keep Sirius locked up.

And then I ask you to sit down, because I will tell you all I have kept from you in the past. And I do. I tell you why Voldemort went after your family in the first place, why your parents are not able to greet you after a school year. I tell you why you must endure such torture every summer, when you live with the Dursleys. I tell I was so proud of your fight for the Sorcerer’s Stone. I tell you I made another mistake. I tell you I cared for you too much.

I, who am such a marvelous burrier of emotions, allowed myself to care too much. Such a mistake!

And then I tell you of the prophecy. I tell you that you must kill, or be killed. You are fifteen, and I tell you that you will execute a battle to the death with Lord Voldemort.

Choices, I’ve told you in the past, make up what person you are and will come to be, but divination and prophecies, it seems I must tell you now, will rule what you will do. I am sorry, Harry. Such a fate you do not deserve.

Of course, the guilt you feel is still there, but I know it will go away after time - for time heals all wounds, as they say, even ones that can take your life. I just hope you do not give in before it heals. . . .

And after a final “Yes,” I cease to speak. You know your fate, and all else there is to know. As you listen briefly to the sounds of others children meandering to the hall for breakfast, I stare at you. At first I see that you are surprised the earth has kept revolving, while we discussed Sirius’s death, and your fate, and then I see a bit of realization in your pale face: Sirius is dead. Finally, I spot it. There is that trace of trust still laced in the creases of your slightly wrinkled brow, and there is forgiveness written into the grim set of your jaw. And I feel like dancing! You trust me! You forgive me!

You care for me, and I care for you.

And I want to tell you that I love you, but I am old, Harry, and old habits are hard to break, even habits of concealing emotion. I have saved you from what I am now, and I’ve told you I care, which is enough. You are free to feel Harry, and as a single tear trickles down my cheek, and into my silver beard, you know I love you, and I note it is the first time a tear has escaped my eyes in fifty years.

Old habits are hard to break, and I am old; but old age is not death, and my heart still beats, so maybe in your freedom, comes mine. I’m sorry Harry, and I love you.

Then, I don’t wipe my tears away, but let them feel to the floor, or disappear in my beard, as we sit there, grateful for one another.

And you are the redemption of this misguided man.