Truths Revealed

Disclaimer: Harry, Hermione and everything to do with the magical world belongs to JKR and I’m only playing in her universe for the fun of it.

Author’s Note: Begun as an attempt to ‘predict’ HBP after the posting on Veritaserum that in HBP, Harry ‘will tell his nearest and dearest about the Prophecy when he’s ready to.’ And then I extended that because my one quibble with JKR’s writing is that she doesn’t even attempt to get to the depths of emotion which is possible in the characters and situations she created.

For my dear Anne U and the ever-brilliant danielerin and Goldy. *hugs*

Truths Revealed

~~~

Guilt.

It filled him, choked him. It was everywhere, pervading this entire gloomy house that he hated.

Oh, he hated it so much. He’d hated coming back here, hated stepping into the prison-like house, hated the one brief moment when he’d almost expected to see Sirius coming down the stairs to greet him, hear Sirius’ voice or his bark-like laugh, only to be disappointed and feel again a fresh surge of grief, anger and guilt.

Guilt was his constant companion. He ate with it, slept with it, lived with it. Always guilt.

And it was so much worse being here in this house where every room reminded him of Sirius, reminded him of the all-too-brief time he’d spent with his godfather and reminded him, too, that it was all his fault.

It was his fault Sirius was gone, his fault that people had been hurt. His fault that Hermione had been hurt. He shuddered convulsively at the memory of Dolohov’s cruel face and the purple light that had gone through her and then that terrible, horrible, heart-stopping moment of fear that Hermione was dead and it would be his fault…

He knew the Weasleys and Hermione would be arriving soon; Remus had told him as much when he had come here an hour ago.

As if from far away, he heard the sound of the front door being opened, the crash of Tonks bumping into something and her muffled curse, the beginnings of Mrs. Black’s screeches before it was cut off by the swish and snick of the curtain over her portrait being drawn sharply closed, heard the footsteps on the stairs.

Then the tentative knock, followed by the door opening. He didn’t turn around, though, not even when he heard Ron and Hermione come in and Ron say, rather awkwardly, “Er, how are you doing, Harry?”

How was he doing! Oh absolutely bloody peachy. My godfather is dead because of me and I’m a marked man with a sadistic, homicidal maniac out to kill me who, to make it even worse, just happens to be the most powerful Dark wizard this world has ever seen. Oh, I’m just bloody wonderful. How are you?

“How do you think I’m doing?” he heard himself say, his tone biting.

He felt Hermione move to sit next to him, putting a hand on his arm. “Oh, Harry, I’m sorry. It- it must be so hard to be back here again. But you’re not alone; we- we understand what it’s like.”

And somehow the sympathy, the caring in her voice even more than her words themselves made something inside him snap. He felt anger bubbling up inside him, anger that he couldn’t keep inside, anger that exploded from him.

He moved sharply away from her touch, leaping up from the bed as if it was on fire, before whirling around to face his best friends. He heard the harsh words spill from his lips, saw the way their faces paled, their eyes widened and saw the hurt in their expressions but for once he didn’t care. He wanted to hurt them, wanted to make them feel some of the hurt and guilt he felt.

Understand? They didn’t understand! They couldn’t understand!

“Don’t say that! Just- just don’t! You don’t understand! None of you- you can’t understand! Sirius is dead; he’s dead! And it’s my fault; it’s all my fault.” His voice cracked and he swallowed hard before continuing on, his voice rising. “Don’t tell me you understand. You don’t; you can’t; you don’t know! Don’t know why Voldemort wants to kill me!”

Ron and Hermione sucked in their breath in shock, staring at him, and he ignored them, not even realizing that he was telling them about the Prophecy. The words just came, welled up inside until they had to be said. He hadn’t planned to tell them, at least not so soon, but somehow he had to. Right now, he had to.

“Voldemort marked me as his equal; I am his equal! See, this is what makes me his equal!” he shoved his hair up, pointing to his scar with a furious gesture. “I’m his equal and so that means that neither of us can live while the other survives. He has to kill me or I have to kill him! Murder or be murdered, that’s my destiny; that’s my life. So don’t tell me you understand! You don’t! You can’t! It’s me; it’s only me he has to kill! I’m alone.”

He stopped, his anger vanishing as quickly as it had come, leaving him feeling empty, hollow somehow. As if those words had been the only things filling him, keeping him going, and now that they were out, there was nothing more. The Prophecy that rang in his ears day and night. Consuming him until he felt that he was only the “one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord” and not himself anymore.

The room was silent now, a heavy silence fraught with tension, his words hanging in the air.

Until finally, Hermione asked, tentatively, “Where did you find that out?”

“It was the Prophecy. The one in the Department of Mysteries,” he answered flatly, dully, suddenly incredibly drained.

“I- I thought it was lost,” Ron said.

Harry shook his head wearily. “No. Not completely. Dumbledore still remembered it; he showed it to me from his Pensieve.” His voice was quiet, strangely calm and emotionless now.

“I see,” Ron said lamely and then looked away, looking ill-at-ease.

He looked from Ron to Hermione, his two best friends, wondering what they were thinking. He didn’t know how he’d expected them to react to the Prophecy but somehow he’d expected something more than this… Ron, admittedly, still looked as if he were trying to comprehend all the ramifications of the Prophecy. Hermione understood but for once, he couldn’t read her expression.

“Harry, you- you could die,” Ron blurted out eventually, his tone saying not that Harry could die but that he probably would.

He let out a bitter laugh that rang harshly in his own ears. Right. Leave it to Ron to state the painfully obvious. The truth he’d been living with for years now. He could die. He was most likely going to die before he turned 18. “You think? Any other brilliant insights?” he asked with biting sarcasm and deliberate cruelty.

Ron flinched, looking ashamed, and part of him took a sort of perverse pleasure in knowing he’d hurt Ron’s feelings even as another part of him knew that Ron hadn’t meant anything by it, had simply blurted out his own fear in the first moment of reaction to hearing about the Prophecy.

“Harry, I- you-” Hermione faltered and then stopped, unsure of what to say.

The pity he heard in her voice, saw in her eyes as she looked at him, made anger flare up inside him again.

“Shut up! Just stop it; there’s nothing you can say or do to make things better! Nothing!”

Suddenly he couldn’t stand to be there, in that room with them, his flare of anger flickering and finally dying on seeing the look in their eyes, the lines of strain around Ron’s mouth, the concern and the tears in Hermione’s eyes. He couldn’t stand the silence, couldn’t stand the tension, couldn’t stand the guilt, the bitter tang of it in his mouth which he knew so well after this past month of it. Couldn’t stand any of it so he just turned and ran, only muttering, “I’m sorry.”

And he was. Sorry for having shouted at them like that, sorry for his outburst of anger when Hermione had only been trying to comfort him. Sorry for putting them in danger. And sorry for still being a danger.

She found him finally in one of the unused rooms upstairs. She’d guessed he would avoid the room where Buckbeak was, to avoid the memory of Sirius if he could.

She went in cautiously, not sure if he would want to talk to her, not sure what she would say to him. “Harry?”

He didn’t turn around to look at her but something about his stance, what she could see of his expression despite the dimness in the room and his profile being the only thing she could see, told her it was ok to join him. “I’m sorry for yelling at you,” he finally said.

“It’s ok,” she assured him quietly, sitting down next to him.

Silence again for another few minutes and then, he turned to look at her. And the bleakness in his eyes tore at her heart, filling her with a wave of sympathy, concern and love. She did love him, she knew that now. The realization had been growing inside her after the events of the last year until she couldn’t deny it anymore. She did love Harry, not just as her best friend but as—as everything. And she couldn’t bear to see him look like this, as if he had no hope left.

His voice when he spoke was a choked whisper, which sounded as if it were forced out of him. “Why?”

She frowned slightly at him, confused, and he continued on, swallowing visibly. “Why don’t you blame me?”

“Blame you, for what?”

“For getting you hurt in the Department of Mysteries. For not listening to you about Voldemort just trying to lure me there. Why haven’t you said, I told you so, when you were so right and I was an idiot to not listen to you and nearly got you killed in the process and I did get Sirius killed because I didn’t listen to you. I- I don’t understand why you haven’t blamed me.” He ended feebly, looking away as if he expected her to say that she did blame him and he couldn’t bear to see her say it.

She sighed, putting her hand on his arm. “Harry, it’s not your fault. I don’t blame you and you weren’t an idiot. You were just being you; you care about people too much to not do anything if you think they’re hurt or in trouble. You do it because you- you’re kind and- and caring; it’s why I- why we’re friends.” she finished rather lamely, having caught herself before she said, ‘why I love you’ and changing her words at the last moment.

Now wasn’t the time to tell Harry of her feelings. Not now, when he was so guilt-ridden and grieving for Sirius. And he didn’t feel that way about her, she reflected trying to ignore the small pang of hurt at the thought. She was just his best friend. And so she would be. His best friend. And that would be enough… At least for now…

“It’s not your fault, Harry. It was never your fault,” she reiterated, trying to infuse her own belief into him, to comfort him.

He didn’t say anything but the tension in him eased just a little and she knew he, at least, believed her when she said she didn’t blame him, even if he couldn’t quite believe yet that it wasn’t his fault.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, and swallowed before looking at her, uncertainty in his eyes.

He wanted to ask her what she thought about the Prophecy, she knew, and didn’t know what to say or how to say it. And so she brought it up, quietly. “Who made that Prophecy you mentioned just now?” She kept her tone carefully matter-of-fact in speaking of the Prophecy.

“It was Professor Trelawney, the first real prophecy she made before the one she made about Wormtail,” he answered her, his voice hardening slightly on Wormtail’s name. He hesitated and then managed to ask, “Don’t- do you care? That I’m going to have to kill Voldemort or be killed?” He took a shuddering breath, trying and failing to sound coolly indifferent as he mentioned the words of the Prophecy.

She shook her head. “No, I don’t care, not in the way you’re worrying about. I care because it’s about you but it doesn’t really change anything.”

He gaped at her. “How can you say that? It changes everything! It- I-” he stumbled on the words, finally stopping, looking as if he didn’t know what to say to such madness. “It changes everything,” he finally said again, his voice flat, admitting no doubt.

“It doesn’t change anything, really, because I always believed you were going to have to kill Voldemort. I know he wants to kill you. Knowing there’s a Prophecy about it doesn’t really change anything. And I’ve always known that I’m going to help you defeat Voldemort somehow and that hasn’t changed either. I’m still going to stay with you and help you.”

“You can’t!” His voice rose again and he shook his head frantically, as if trying to deny her words. “You can’t.”

She kept her voice quiet, quiet and yet implacable as well. “I can and I’m going to.”

“The Prophecy said I was the one, the one with the Power Voldemort knows not. I have to do this.”

“The Prophecy didn’t say I couldn’t help you. And I’m going to help you. I have to help you. I won’t let you be killed, Harry. I won’t.” It was a promise, one she spoke with fierce determination.

“It- it’ll be dangerous,” he protested with a hint of desperation in his voice.

“I care more about you than I do about my being in danger,” she said with perfect honesty.

He slumped beside her, as if realizing he couldn’t persuade her otherwise. And finally, he said in a tortured whisper, “I don’t- I don’t want you to be hurt because of me. Not again.” He looked at her, his eyes burning into hers, filled with fear and vulnerability and friendship. “I- I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to you.” His voice was rough with emotion. “I need you.”

He stopped short. He needed her. The words had slipped out of his mouth without his consciously thinking them but he knew they were true. It was why he’d felt such heart-stopping dread on thinking she was dead in the Department of Mysteries, why the thought of her being in danger brought such a lump to his throat. He needed her. Needed her friendship and her loyalty. Needed her intelligence, needed her to tell him when he was being a prat (since she was the only one who did). How many times would he have been dead or seriously injured if it hadn’t been for her? She’d saved him so many times, saved him from Umbridge and the Cruciatus just a few weeks ago, really. She could have saved him from losing Sirius if he had listened, he thought, his heart clenching with a mixture of regret and grief. He simply needed her.

“I need you,” he repeated, more softly this time. He didn’t say anything more, didn’t think he could say anything more.

But she understood. He could see it in her eyes, her expression.

“I won’t leave you,” she promised softly.

And he believed her.

Hermione felt herself relax a little, for the first time since entering the room earlier; felt, too, a measure of happiness. Harry may not care about her in the same way she cared about him; she knew he didn’t. But he did need her. After all, it was- nice to be needed. And it was such a precious, precious thing to know he knew that he needed her. He needed her, and that was enough.