Forgive Him His Trespasses

Disclaimer: Nothing HP-related belongs to me; I’m only borrowing JKR’s world for fun.

Author’s Note: A one-shot fic inspired, oddly enough, while watching “X-men” (the first movie).

For Gil, Kaze and Goldy. *hugs*

~Forgive Him His Trespasses~

To the end of his life, Harry would shudder when he remembered what happened that one night in February of his 7^th year. That one night which changed his life forever…

It began with an accident. Or to be strictly accurate, it began with a nightmare. Or maybe it simply began with his falling asleep in the Gryffindor Common Room.

He had left the rather oppressive solitude of the Head Boy’s room for the more inviting warmth of the Common Room, missing not for the first time, the simple camaraderie of sharing a room with Ron and Neville and Seamus and Dean. He’d settled into one of the large plushy armchairs in the Common Room, staring into the flickering flames in the fireplace, although he kept his wand in hand. He always kept his wand close at hand if not actually in his grasp in these days of living under the growing darkness of the shadow, knowing the final confrontation with Voldemort was approaching, getting closer every day. And just the not knowing of exactly when or how it was going to happen added to the apprehension.

He must have dozed off although he didn’t realize it at the time.

All he knew was that suddenly he was no longer in the warmth and safety of the Common Room but outside in the cold and darkness of the Forbidden Forest. He could hear the crunch of branches and leaves under his feet, feel the occasional brush of bare tree branches against his face and shoulders, with their eerie resemblance to skeletal fingers and arms reaching out for him. Could even feel the sharp cold bite of the February wind stinging his cheeks, hear the faint sound of the wind moaning through the trees…

And he was surrounded.

He could sense it although he couldn’t see in the darkness what, or whom, he was surrounded by. All he knew, all he could sense, was the malevolence surrounding him, the threat coming ever closer. He didn’t dare use Lumos for fear of giving away his position to his enemies, could only wait in tense apprehension.

Suddenly he felt the burning in his scar increase until it was searing into his skull. He bit his lip to keep from crying out, his hand clenching tighter around his wand.

He could hear a murmur of voices coming from the darkness. Then he knew who was surrounding him and felt a surge of hatred. Lucius Malfoy, Antonin Dolohov, Bellatrix Lestrange. It was them, he knew it, though he still couldn’t see them.

He saw a jet of pink light from a curse and dodged it, dropping and rolling on the ground to avoid being hit. He knelt back up on the ground, every muscle tensed in wait until he heard a voice from somewhere in front and off to the side. A voice saying his name. “Harry…”

He leaped up, his wand outstretched, roaring the incantation for the Piercing Curse, “Percutium!”

He heard a thud of someone falling to the ground and a cry of pain.

And then suddenly he was standing not in the Forbidden Forest but in the Common Room, lit dimly still by the fire and looking not at the face of a Death Eater but another face. A face nearly as familiar to him as his own.

He could only stare for a few endless seconds, his wand still outstretched, trembling slightly from the force of his grip, his mind still sluggish and ensnared in the coils of his nightmare. Stare with a blank horror at the sight of Hermione, lying on the floor, one hand clutching her bleeding shoulder, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and fright and beginning to brim with tears in reaction to the stabbing pain in her shoulder.

“Harry…” she finally managed to gasp out, her voice faint, unsteady.

Oh dear God!

The sound of her voice broke through the stunned horror that had kept him immobile for those few seemingly endless moments, although it was in reality only a couple seconds. He dropped his wand, casting it away from him with sudden revulsion at the instrument with which he’d just inadvertently wounded Hermione, and staggered forward the few steps until he reached her side.

He gathered her into his arms, great gasping breaths tearing from his chest now as panic clawed at his brain. She was bleeding, the horrible wet red-ness of blood seeping through and staining the material of her cloak and her pyjama top. Oh God, she was bleeding. He’d wounded her; the Piercing Curse he’d thought he was aiming at Malfoy, Dolohov or Lestrange striking her instead. Oh God, oh God, oh God! She was bleeding. And he had done this to her.

He- he must have fallen asleep and she had come down for whatever reason, seen him in his restless sleep and tried to wake him up. She- she must have been the one to actually say his name, her voice being transformed through the web of his nightmare until he heard it as a threat and- and- The miniscule part of his mind that was still functioning tried desperately to explain this horrifying situation, what had just happened. How it could have happened that he had been the one to cause this gaping wound in Hermione’s shoulder…

Oh dear God, she’s bleeding! And it’s because of me!

This was the real nightmare, the worst thing that could ever have happened… The worst thing that had ever happened… Even seeing Hermione fall after being hit with Dolohov’s curse in the Department of Mysteries couldn’t compare; then, at least, while he’d blamed himself, he hadn’t actually been the one to hurt her. And that time, there had been no blood, only the purple light going through her. Somehow, irrationally, even though he knew that Dolohov’s curse, whatever it had been, was far worse than a Piercing Curse, the sight of her blood- and knowing he had been the one to make her bleed like this- sent him into such a state of fear and dread as he’d never suffered before.

All his shock, guilt, self-hatred and trepidation released itself from his throat in one choked cry. “Oh God, Hermione…”

Her eyes briefly flickered open and her lips parted, trying to sound reassuring, although the weakness of her voice, drained from having to endure the burning agony in her shoulder, served more to increase the knot of cold fear in his stomach and throat than lessen it. “I- I’ll be okay. Just- just—Infirmary,” she gasped out and then her eyes rolled back in her head as she lost consciousness from the pain.

The Infirmary! Yes! The Infirmary! He latched on to that one word with the desperation of a drowning man grasping a life-line, the hope it represented breaking through the blind panic filling his brain.

He lifted her, cradling her in his arms, and took off, half-stumbling out of the Common Room in his haste, running, half-blinded by belated tears of guilt and fear. He paid no heed to the surprised cries and curious questions of the portraits he passed, his entire mind and being only filled with the one thought of the Infirmary.

He needed to get Hermione to the Infirmary. Madam Pomfrey could fix this; she had to heal Hermione.

He practically skidded to a halt outside the Infirmary when he finally reached it, cursing the maze-like moving hallways and staircases of Hogwarts, bursting inside.

“Madam Pomfrey! Madam Pomfrey, help!” he cried out, as he gently laid Hermione on one of the Infirmary beds, wincing at the sight of the blood staining her cloak and pyjama top.

He bit his lip hard until he tasted the bitter tang of his own blood as he stared down at her still form in an agony of guilt and fear and helplessness. Oh God. Hermione. What have I done!

It seemed like years passed before Madam Pomfrey finally appeared, hurrying in. “Dear, oh dear, what happened here?” she fussed as she set about conjuring some potions and ointments with a few flicks of her wand, bending over Hermione.

“I- it- it was an accident,” Harry choked out, swallowing back the knot of apprehension in his throat. “I- she- I accidentally hit her with the P-piercing C-c-curse. She- she was trying to wake me up from a nightmare,” he managed to say, his voice raw with self-condemnation.

Madam Pomfrey sighed and then shook her head. And the sight sent a wave of cold dread washing over him.

“She- she’s going to be alright?” he faltered out, trying desperately to remember any lasting effects of the Piercing Curse.

Madam Pomfrey didn’t answer immediately, pointing her wand at Hermione’s shoulder as a glowing white light settled around it, lingering there for a moment until it seemed to be absorbed. Then she glanced up at Harry. “She should be fine, Mr. Potter. Now you may as well go back to your room; hovering here will do Miss Granger no good.”

She should be fine. She should be fine. She should be fine… The words echoed in his mind in a litany, relief hitting him so hard his knees felt weak. Thank God…

Madam Pomfrey sighed again and then added, her tone slightly gentler at the sight of his obvious distress, “You may return in the morning and I will be sure to let you know if anything happens before then.”

He nodded dumbly, turning and walking out of the Infirmary with feet that felt like lead after a last, long look at Hermione’s pale face. Hermione, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. And you have to get better; get better, please, Hermione. So I can tell you I’m sorry. Get better. Get better. Get better, please… I can’t- I can’t do this without you. You have to get better… Oh God, I’m so sorry…

He found himself back in his room before he even realized it, having come through the hallways and staircases from the Infirmary until the Gryffindor Tower in a blind haze of self-recrimination and worry.

He stared unseeingly around the familiar space of his bedroom before collapsing into a chair, his mind reliving that terrible, awful, heart-stopping moment when he realized what he’d done. Seeing again Hermione, lying on the ground, so pale, blood coming from the gash in her shoulder.

He shuddered convulsively, curling up in his chair and squeezing his eyes shut in a futile attempt to block the image from his mind. Oh God, Hermione…

Nothing he had ever experienced—seeing Cedric murdered in front of his eyes in 4^th year, or seeing Sirius fall through the veil or seeing Hermione unconscious in the Department of Mysteries after being hit with Dolohov’s curse—nothing could have prepared him for seeing Hermione bleeding and knowing he had done this to her.

And as his brain slowly began to function again, rational thought breaking through the fog of stark terror and shock, he faced full-on the revelation which the sight of Hermione, lying wounded on the floor, had precipitated. The blinding realization he hadn’t considered or thought of until now.

He loved Hermione.

Loved her not as his best friend, as he’d thought until now, but with a love that went much deeper than that. Loved her with a sincerity, an intensity, he hadn’t even known he was capable of until this moment. Loved her with a force of emotion that made every other emotion he’d ever felt seem paltry and piddling in comparison. His affection and loyalty to Ron, the affection he’d felt for Sirius, his caring and respect for Remus and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, the brotherly caring he felt for Ginny—they all paled in comparison to his love for Hermione.

And what a hard, painful, torturous thing it was to have hurt the person you love, even inadvertently (or especially inadvertently)!

He’d thought he was familiar with guilt but he’d never felt this kind of guilt before. This soul-searing, heart-stopping, mind-numbing flood of remorse and self-hatred which had assailed him from the moment he recognized Hermione and realized what he’d done.

His hands clutched at his hair, almost welcoming the discomfort as he tugged at the black locks in an agony of self-reproach.

A sound that was half-sob and half-groan tore from his throat.

He loved her, trusted her. How- even if he had been having one of his frighteningly real nightmares- could he have ever attacked her like that? Hurt her like that? How could he have hurt her, who had saved his life so many times? Hurt the one person who had always been with him, always believed in him, always helped him? How could have done that to Hermione?

The Piercing Curse…

He half-fell, half-stumbled out of the chair to his bookbag, frantically rummaging through it for his DADA textbook, nearly ripping at the pages in his sudden desperate need to look up the effects of the Piercing Curse.

The Piercing Curse (Incantation: “Percutium”)

This curse is one of the most commonly used curses when defending oneself in a real duel situation. It inflicts a wound, much like that caused when stabbed by a sword, a wound which varies in depth and seriousness depending both on where the spell was aimed and the force of the caster’s power and the emotions put into speaking the incantation. The Curse generally leaves no lasting effects, especially if the resulting gash is treated soon after being received and does not damage any vital organs. It should be noted that a well-placed Piercing Curse to the heart or lungs will usually prove fatal. If aimed at an opponent’s wand arm or wrist, it is very effective in causing an opponent to drop his wand.

It can also be used in conjunction with the Cleaving Effect, which makes the wound inflicted by the Piercing Curse a wound which will not close, and can, eventually, lead to death if left completely untreated within a day after receiving the wound.

He let out a breath of relief on reading that it generally had no lasting effects although the detailed circumstances where the curse would prove fatal made him shudder.

Hermione had to be okay; he didn’t even want to think about what would happen if she wasn’t, if she was even scarred in some way. He’d never be able to forgive himself.

Would she be able to forgive him?

He remembered seeing the flash of fright in her expression, along with the shock, and another convulsive shudder racked his body. It was the first time she’d ever looked afraid of him and it killed him to think of it, the memory of her expression tormenting him.

“Hermione, I’m so sorry. Forgive me. I’m so sorry,” he whispered, something like a whimper in his tone. “I- I didn’t mean to hurt you; I’d never hurt you, you know that, right? I’m sorry, so sorry…”

He didn’t realize how time was passing as he cowered there on the floor of his room, not feeling the hardness of the floor on his knees or the stiffness of his muscles as hours passed, unable even to muster the clearness of mind to get up again or move.

He was only brought to a belated awareness of his surroundings and the time when his alarm went off, the tinny voice of his clock announcing, “Time to get up now! It’s 7 o’clock on Thursday and time to get up! Wake up, sleepy-head.”

He blinked, shaking his head to clear it before getting up gingerly, his movements slow and careful, to turn off his alarm, and then stumbling into the bathroom to wash his face.

He was at the Infirmary minutes later, trying desperately to swallow back his sudden nervousness amounting to panic. Would Hermione be awake? Would she even want to see him after what he’d done to her? Would she forgive him?

Could he live with himself if she didn’t?

He entered the Infirmary cautiously, his gaze going immediately to Hermione. She looked pale and her eyes were closed but the blood was gone, he was relieved to see, and there was a bandage wrapped around her shoulder. He took a deep shuddering breath, moving until he was standing next to her bed. Was this what she had felt every time she had visited him in the Infirmary, he wondered, this same apprehension and strangling worry, although without the guilt?

She looked so small and fragile, somehow, lying in the Infirmary bed, belying the strength of her character and her will which he knew so well. And he felt a surge of fresh guilt mixed in with tenderness and protectiveness. How could he ever have hurt her of all people, hurt the one person he loved the most, the one person who had always been there for him?

His breath hitched in his chest and her eyes opened and she saw him.

And what he saw in her eyes was his undoing.

He fell into the chair beside the bed, tears blurring his vision and his hand automatically reaching out to take hers in a gentle clasp, even though he half-felt that he had forfeited his right to take her hand, to touch her at all.

He saw softness, compassion, understanding—and the final thing which made his knees give out under him—forgiveness. She forgave him.

She didn’t say anything in that moment, just his name, “Harry,” softly, in a whisper.

And he broke. Felt the walls around his heart and soul crumble under a tidal wave of emotion that flooded through him, shaking his spirit.

His head went down to rest on her hand, partly to hide the tears he couldn’t help but shed.

“I- I love you,” he finally blurted out softly, his voice cracking slightly. He said the words without even thinking about it; he’d meant to begin by saying he was sorry but somehow those three words he’d never even thought of saying to anyone else came out instead.

Her hand tightened on his and he felt her other hand move to run gentle fingers through his hair, which was standing on end he was sure from the night of running his hands through it and tugging on it.

He felt rather than heard her slight intake of breath and sensed she was going to say something but he continued on, words now spilling out of him.

“I love you. I’m sorry, Hermione, so sorry. I- I didn’t mean to hurt you; you know I’d never hurt you, right? I- I was having a nightmare and- and- I can’t believe I hurt you. Can you ever forgive me? I’m so sorry, so sorry,” he repeated, his voice choked with the grief and guilt he felt.

Her hand moved from his hair to touch his cheek and he finally lifted his head to look at her.

“Sssh. It’s okay, Harry. It was only an accident; I know you didn’t mean to hurt me.” Her eyes met his and he saw in them all the strength of mind which he knew and loved and depended on, unconsciously, to be his conscience and the voice of reason in his thoughts. But what humbled him and touched him was the friendship, the loyalty, the trust he still saw in her eyes, despite all he’d done to her, despite his ingratitude and taking her for granted over the years and despite his having hurt her this last night. “I forgive you, Harry,” she said firmly. “I forgive you. And I trust you. I know you’d never hurt me deliberately.”

He flinched involuntarily, her very forgiveness inexplicably paining him more than her blame would have. She should be angry at him; her forgiveness when he couldn’t forgive himself seemed to heighten the magnitude of his guilt. She forgave him and he- he had been the one to attack her, to hurt her. He was the reason she was lying here in the Infirmary, so pale, a bandage on her shoulder. He didn’t deserve her forgiveness and yet he couldn’t help but be grateful for it, seeking it and relishing in the warmth that flooded his heart and soul at her words. I forgive you. And I trust you…

He could only stare at her, his eyes roaming over every inch of her face, so familiar, so dear, so beautiful to him, despite its pallor. Stare at her and read the understanding in her eyes, recognize in her what he should have seen years ago, that she was the one he loved… And he felt an intense gratitude, a thankfulness that touched, filled his soul, that she was going to be alright, that she cared about him, that she forgave him…

I forgive you. I trust you… Forgiveness. Trust. They were so powerful. He felt the hard knot of guilt and self-condemnation which had taken up residence in his chest since that one horrible moment of awakening, begin to dissolve. Only a little and gradually, pieces being chipped away—as he began to forgive himself… I forgive you. I trust you…

And all he could say in that moment was, “I love you.” Everything he felt simply summed up in those three small words…

She smiled slightly. “I know. I love you too.”

For a moment, he could have sworn his heart stopped beating. Everything seemed to stop for a fleeting second; time paused, the world narrowing down to her face and the sound of her voice saying those four words. I love you too…

“I- I don’t deserve it,” he managed to choke out.

Her smile softened. “Yes, you do. But even if you didn’t, love isn’t about deserving; love just is.”

He didn’t smile; he couldn’t. The moment was too solemn, too sacred somehow but he knew she understood. As she always did.

The moment was broken when Madam Pomfrey bustled up to check on Hermione. She showed no surprise on seeing Harry was already there, only nodded at him before using her wand to perform a few checks on Hermione’s shoulder.

When she was done, she nodded to herself, and then turned to them. “You should rest now, Miss Granger. Mr. Potter, you may come back and see her at lunch time if you must and then later this afternoon, she may be able to return to her own room.”

Harry nodded dutifully, exchanged a glance with Hermione, and said softly, “I’ll be back later then. Rest.” He paused and then added with a smile that tried to look teasing but didn’t quite succeed, “I’ll take notes in class for you so you won’t miss anything.”

She returned his smile with a slight one of her own. “Thanks.”

He followed Madam Pomfrey away from Hermione’s bed to her office, of sorts, at the other end of the Infirmary. “She- she is going to be alright, isn’t she? And there aren’t going to be any lasting effects?” He needed to know, needed to make sure…

“Yes, Mr. Potter, Miss Granger is going to be just fine. The wound was only moderately severe for one inflicted by the Piercing Curse and is healing smoothly. In fact the only reason I’m insisting she remain here, in bed, for today is to make absolutely sure there will be no lingering effects from the curse. You see, Mr. Potter, cuts and gashes caused by magic heal differently than the ordinary cuts and gashes received through any sharp objects; there is always some lingering magic around the cut to be taken care of before the actual wound itself can be healed. Fortunately for you both, the Piercing Curse is one with a relatively mild magical effect. So Miss Granger is out of any danger and should, all things going well, be able to return to her normal schedule tomorrow. There may only be some slight stiffness in that shoulder for the next day or two. Otherwise, she will be completely fine. There’s no need to worry so, Mr. Potter.” Her tone softened uncharacteristically as she added, “I rather doubt you could inflict lasting physical damage on Miss Granger; you care for her too much. Even if you tried, your own feelings for her would prevent it; Dark magic requires a sincerely malignant will behind it to be truly effective, you know, Mr. Potter.”

He nodded, in silence, knowing his relief was clear to be seen on his face and not caring. Part of his mind that could still think about such inconsequential things wondered why he wasn’t blushing at this indication that Madam Pomfrey knew quite well how he felt about Hermione, before reflecting that somehow, his instinctive desire for privacy didn’t matter that much, not compared to his feelings for Hermione. He didn’t mind that Madam Pomfrey knew, was even glad she did. He loved Hermione and just right now, he didn’t care who knew it…

Ron’s first words to him when he walked into Transfiguration that morning were, “Where have you been? And where’s Hermione?”

And somehow, inexplicably, he reversed his thought of just a few moments ago. Or if not reversed it, simply altered it. How to tell Ron that he loved Hermione, that she loved him too? Or how to explain just what had happened? He didn’t know if he could explain what had happened, didn’t know if he could talk about how he’d attacked Hermione even if he had been having a nightmare. He flinched inwardly at the word ‘attacked’ but it was true. He had… And he still hated himself for having done so.

No, he didn’t think he could explain. He would tell Ron about his feelings for Hermione later but not now and not in conjunction with what he’d done to her. He couldn’t speak of that; that horrible, nightmarish episode of agony would simply remain between himself and Hermione.

“She had an accident. She’s in the Infirmary right now,” he answered, trying not to let his guilt be audible.

Ron looked alarmed. “Is she going to be alright?”

“Yes. She’s going to be fine,” he said and then caught his breath at the surge of powerful relief he felt. She was going to be fine… Somehow, simply repeating those words brought the truth of them home to him and he knew a moment of intense gratitude that he was sitting down as otherwise he rather thought his knees would have buckled under him. She was going to be fine…

Thank God…

She was going to be fine. She had forgiven him… She loved him…

She was going to be fine. And because of that, he would be fine as well…

The End