Apologies

Apologies

Author name: Romulus Lupin
Author email: galigad@yahoo.com
Category: Drama / Angst
Sub Category: Romance
Keywords: Harry Hermione Sirius Day After
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers:SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, OotP
Summary: It is the day after Harry and his friends’ encounter with Voldemort and the Death Eaters in the Ministry of Magic. After his talk with Dumbledore, Harry goes to the Hospital Wing to visit Hermione and Ron … WARNING: MAJOR OotP SPOILERS AHEAD!
DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author notes: For everyone who sails on the HMS Pumpkin Pie, always remember: home is where your heart is. Glomps and hugs to you all!

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Drained.

Hollowed out.

He felt like an emptied shell – all skin and bones and nothing within: no organs, no blood or flesh. He leaned back wearily in the corridor outside Dumbledore’s office, looking at the world around him through dulled and lifeless eyes, his brain utterly battered by the events of the day and the startling revelations made in the round room where he had left the Headmaster, who was probably trying to repair the damage wrought by an angry Harry Potter.

He had wanted nothing more than to simply collapse in that room – to be a mere sack of emptiness and nothingness draped over the chair, but he had forced himself to stand up and get out -- pushed himself out and away, ignoring the portraits of Headmasters past, paying no heed to the old man at his desk who now had to face the consequences of his actions with no one to console him except the living portraits of those who had gone before him.

Dumbledore at least had someone to talk to.

Harry Potter had no one.

Sirius Black was gone.

And now he was alone.

‘No, you’re not.’

He blinked and shook his head – turned and saw the unblinking eyes of the stone gargoyle that guarded the entrance to Dumbledore’s office. For a moment he stared, wondering whether that particular statue with its own inherent magic had spoken – shaking his head again as he realized that the voice belonged to someone else … someone he knew well …

‘You’re never alone, Harry Potter. Can’t you understand that?’

Hermione Granger.

Best friend, constant companion – the voice of reason to his often jumbled, unsettled mind. And she was in the Hospital Wing, along with the others, recovering from the battle with Voldemort’s Death Eaters – a clash he had dragged his friends into, simply because … because …

He took a deep, shuddering breath and forced himself to face his actions squarely.

Because he, like the old man in the round room, cared too much.

Loved too deeply.

But in caring too much, and loving too deeply, they had both turned a blind eye to other things, other people. They’d focused their minds and attentions on a single person, unheeding of others who needed them – cared for them in the same way that he – and Dumbledore -- cared.

In his single-minded focus on his godfather – and in Dumbledore’s concern for him and the burdens he would have to face – they had both forgotten about the others. Dumbledore’s words swam into his mind: “I cared about you too much. I cared more for your happiness than your knowing the truth, more for your peace of mind than my plan, more for your life than the lives that might be lost if the plan failed. In other words, I acted exactly as Voldemort expects we fools who love, to act.”

And he had acted in exactly the same way – caring too much for Sirius and letting his fear and concern overrule everything and everyone else, screaming at Hermione and nearly hitting her in his anger at her interfering logic, unheeding at the time of even the merest possibility that she was correct … caring more for Sirius’ life than the lives that might have been lost if his half-baked, half-mad plan failed.

As it had.

He’d gone to the Department of Mysteries with a single objective: to rescue Sirius. Instead, it had been Sirius and the others who’d rescued him – and in so doing, he’d led Sirius to his death.

As if a tape recording had been let loose in his head, he could hear Lucius Malfoy’s smirking voice from behind his mask in the room he’d been dreaming about for months: “Oh, you don’t know Potter as I do, Bellatrix. He has a great weakness for heroics; the Dark Lord understands this about him ...”

And Hermione’s voice from earlier that day started sounding off in his mind, interspersing itself with Malfoy’s voice: “I’m trying to say -- Voldemort knows you, Harry! He took Ginny down into the Chamber of Secrets to lure you there, it’s the kind of thing he does, he knows you’re the -- the sort of person who’d go to Sirius’ aid! What if he’s just trying to get you into the Department of Myst—?”

Vaguely, he realized he was walking … no, he was sprinting … no, he was running, unheeding of the noise and commotion he was making, unheeding of anything, everything and everyone that was in his way.

He had to talk to her.

* * *

Bizarre.

It was the only way to describe his feelings as he stood in the space between the two beds, looking down on his best friends, fast asleep in adjacent beds in the Hospital Wing.

Once again, all three of them were in the Hospital Wing (the others had been sent to their respective dorms) – but this time, he was standing alone, whole and unharmed except for the scars on his soul, while they were the ones injured and asleep. A flood of memories rampaged through his mind at the thought: Hermione’s furred face after the fiasco with the Polyjuice potion in second year; Hermione petrified after the encounter with the basilisk before their game against Hufflepuff in that same year; Hermione and himself talking to Dumbledore in third year – the Headmaster saying, “What we need is more time…”

She had always been there for him, he reflected. From the room beneath the castle when she solved the Potions puzzle, to the Gryffindor Common Room at one in the morning as he perfected the Summoning Charm. She had used her Time-Turner to help him rescue Sirius two years ago; she was the only one who stood by him when the whole school – including Ron! – snubbed him for becoming a Tri-Wizard Champion …

And this time – in spite of her own doubts about his plan, she’d gone with him to Umbridge’s office to try and get in touch with Sirius. He’d recognized her offer to go with him as a sign of solidarity and loyalty, even if he seemed to be maniacal in his distress and concern.

In exchange for all the solidarity, loyalty and, yes, the friendship and concern she had shown for him over the years … he shuddered as his mind replayed Dolohov slashing with his wand, a streak of what looked like purple flame passing right through Hermione’s chest, her tiny “Oh!” of surprise as she crumpled – his panic at the thought that she was dead through his sheer thoughtlessness and stupidity ...

Unthinking, he sat on her bed and stared at her sleeping face, sensing her slow, even breathing, unconsciously reaching out to hold her hand – and entwine his fingers with hers.

“You were right, you know,” he whispered in a hoarse voice. “You were right … it was a trap for me. You knew … you could sense it … you knew what Voldemort was thinking. You knew that he would count on my ‘saving people’ thing to make me go to the Department of Mysteries …”

He shuddered at the memory of their argument – and felt himself shake in loathing at the sheer level of anger, frustration and rage that had coursed through him as she tried to dissuade him from his plans. He had held himself back with an effort as she reminded him of his blunder during the Tri-Wizard tournament, of going beyond the limit in an effort to save Gabrielle Delacour …

“I guess you know me too well, Hermione – I keep forgetting that. You weren’t even my friend in first year when you tried to stop me from that midnight duel with Malfoy – and even then you were correct.”

He could still remember that night when he and Ron had set out for the duel with Malfoy – and his astonishment that anyone could be so interfering as she followed them out the portrait-hole, hissing like an angry goose. And yet … and yet … if she hadn’t joined them, there was no way that they could have avoided getting caught by Filch. If it wasn’t for her Alohamora charm that night …

‘I hope you’re pleased with yourselves. We could all have been killed -- or worse, expelled. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to bed.’

He could feel a smile breaking out on his face as he heard her verdict on the midnight duel in his head – and the look of shock on Ron’s face at her pronouncement. Oh yes, he thought, that was the Hermione we all knew and loved – the bossy know-it-all who had avoided them for days after that, except for that one moment when she’d asked him if he thought that his Nimbus 2000 was a reward for breaking rules --

But she was right, he thought. She was so right … even then, five years and so many adventures before. She had been right so many times – even to the fact that it was Sirius who had sent him the Firebolt for Christmas two years ago. Of course, Sirius hadn’t sent it to him to harm him – no one knew that at the time – but still …

‘Oh yes, I forgot - of course, if it was darling Hermione’s idea –‘

Cho.

His smile vanished, replaced by a grim line as he gritted his teeth. Where did Cho get off, saying that it was a horrible trick of Hermione to have jinxed the Defence Association’s list that they all signed? It was an absolutely brilliant idea, as he’d told Cho – and she had thrown that accusation at him and …

‘You should have told her differently,’ Hermione was saying in his head, with that maddeningly patient air she had. He tried to shake the memory of their discussion when she’d asked about his date with Cho out of his head, but the words rolled on and on … Hermione patiently explaining how he should have dealt with Cho’s outburst, and ending it with the afterthought, ‘… And it might have been a good idea to mention how ugly you think I am, too.’

“But I don’t think you’re ugly,” he said to her sleeping form, unconsciously repeating his bemused reaction to her statement. “You’re smart … absolutely brilliant … you understand me better than I do sometimes … you always know what’s right for me, and what to do for me …”

‘I know you’re in there,’ said Hermione’s voice. ‘Will you please come out? 1 want to talk to you.’

Christmas at Grimmauld Place. He’d been avoiding everybody because of the fear that Voldemort was possessing him – refusing to join them for meals, listening to Sirius singing from the cold drawing room where he had retreated to in order to evade them, hiding out in Buckbeak’s room so he could avoid dinner …

So why had he opened the door when Hermione started hammering it, and calling him? She was standing there in her sweater, snow in her hair and face pink with the cold. She must have gone straight up to him from the time she entered the house -- with only a few words, made him follow her to his bedroom where Ginny reminded him about how it felt like to be possessed by Voldemort … and that had led to one of the most wonderful Christmases he’d ever had: surrounded by friends and the Weasley family, Grimmauld place transformed through their efforts into a homey, wonderful place, the usual pile of Christmas gifts from everyone -- Sirius as a genial host totally unlike the sullen host of the summer …

Sirius.

His mind brought back the first time he’d set eyes on Sirius -- a mass of filthy, matted hair hanging to his elbows, eyes shining out of deep, dark sockets, waxy skin stretched so tightly over the bones of his face, yellow teeth bared in a grin – a total contrast to the picture of the laughing wizard who was best man at his parent’s wedding.

“Remember that night, Hermione?” he whispered. “The three of us in the Shrieking Shack with Sirius … we all thought that he was going to kill us, or kill me and the two of you were going to be killed along with me? Who’d have thought that it was Wormtail the whole time … that Scabbers was Peter Pettigrew, the one who betrayed my mum and dad?

“Sirius wanted me to live with him, remember? If we had been able to bring Wormtail in … if I had not been so high and noble and not stopped them from killing him...” His voice trailed off. What was there to say? Everything that could possibly have been said had been said … he’d had to constantly face the consequences of his actions and decisions far too many times in the past two years …

Letting Peter Pettigrew live two years ago had let loose a flood of consequences that no one – not even Trelawney in her incense-shrouded room in the South Tower -- would have been able to predict. Who could have predicted the havoc that the prophecies of a batty old professor in Divination would wreak on the wizarding world? Her first prophecy had set Voldemort after his parents; the second heralded the events leading to the resurrection of Voldemort – and the deaths of Cedric Diggory and Sirius Black.

He heard Hermione whimper and he started, realizing that he was crushing the hand he was holding as his memories and emotions raged through his muscles and veins, and he quickly tried to let go – but unable to do so, entwined as his fingers were in hers. He tried to pull his hand away but couldn’t … glancing down, he realized that Hermione was gripping his hand as tightly as he was – looking up quickly, he saw that her eyes had opened and she was staring at him, but her eyes were glazed, unfocused …

“Hermione!” he whispered hoarsely.

Her eyes snapped to his voice and he felt her fingers tighten around his. “Harry?” she whispered. “Thank Merlin you’re safe!”

Before he could say anything, she had closed her eyes and was seemingly asleep again, her warm fingers still entwined with his.

He should have felt warmed by her concern, but he was not.

Once again, he felt his insides draining away … the same hollowness he’d felt in Dumbledore’s office coursing through him: he was safe, but Sirius was dead. He had nearly brought all of them to their doom in an effort to save Sirius – but Sirius was still gone.

“I’m sorry, Hermione,” he said in a choked whisper. “I dragged you lot into this to rescue Sirius – and I failed. I failed.”

Failed his godfather.

Failed his friends.

Failed himself.

“No, you didn’t.”

A bitter smile as he clenched his teeth against the voice of reason in his head. Why should it – she – be insisting that he hadn’t failed? He’d set out to rescue Sirius, but Sirius was gone …

“Do you hear me, Harry? You -- have not – failed!”

His head snapped up so fast that he could swear his neck bones snapped – and he was staring into Hermione’s eyes, sparkling with their own inner pain. He realized that she was gripping his hand tightly and he could hear her harsh breathing as she tried to sit up, fighting against the pain in her magically-wounded chest.

“Hermione – no! You’re hurt … you should rest … don’t talk …” He stood up, but she held on tightly to him and he, realizing that it was useless to try and leave, sat down again beside her, glancing around guiltily in case Madam Pomfrey walked in and threw him out for disturbing her patient, pushing down on her shoulder with his other hand to stop her from sitting up …

“Harry …” She finally laid back with a gasp, teeth gritting against the pain in her chest, but he could still recognize the steely determination in her eyes and he leaned forward so that she wouldn’t have much difficulty in talking. “You’re here … you’re alive … that’s all that matters.”

He stared at her, mouth opened in shock. After all that had happened, after all that he had gone through … after the loss of his godfather, the person whom he had learned to love more than life itself … all that mattered to her was that he was still alive, that he was still the bloody Boy-Who-Lived, their one shining hope against Voldemort and his Death-Eaters! Was that all he was to them? Didn’t Sirius count for anything at all in this world?

He felt his chest constricting, felt again a dark, boiling rage build within his head as he tried to release her hand, even as he felt her gripping him tighter, and he turned to her with blazing eyes and gritted teeth.

“Sirius is dead, did you know that?” His self-control was on a very thin thread … it was only the continuing emptiness of his soul that had kept him from screaming at her. As it was, his very whisper carried an excess of venom and hate – hate for what he was, disgust for everything that he had been forced to do and live up to ever since he’d entered the wizarding world, loathing for whatever it was that made Voldemort want to kill him – and had led to the deaths of Cedric and Sirius.

He closed his eyes to the rage within him, trying to force a calmness over his shaking body, biting down on his tongue to keep from shouting the same things he had screamed at Dumbledore earlier as he’d smashed furniture and other possessions in his rage: “I DON”T CARE! I’VE HAD ENOUGH, I’VE SEEN ENOUGH, I WANT OUT, I WANT IT TO END, I DON’T CARE ANY MORE –“

Vaguely, through the red haze of his rage, he heard Hermione’s hoarse whisper: “I know about Sirius … I heard them talking earlier … I’m sorry, Harry. I’m so sorry.”

“Is that all you can say?” he hissed, as he opened his eyes and glared at her. “Is that all you can bloody tell me? That you’re sorry … you’re sorry … Dumbledore is sorry, everyone is sorry … but no one can understand what I feel!”

She was staring at him in shock, and he could see the tears breaking loose and falling down her cheeks. And yet she didn’t let go of him; hazily, he felt her hands in his, felt her pulling on him so that she could sit up and face him rather than simply lie there and listen.

“No one can, Harry … because none of us know Sirius that well. I am sorry that he’s gone, but I cannot feel the way you feel because I do not know him that well. All that matters to me now is that you’re here, and you’re safe … “

“Why?” he spat. “Because I’m the bloody Boy-Who-Lived?”

He saw her flinch at his savage tone and felt a momentary satisfaction, but in the same instant, felt her fingernails digging into his skin as she tightened her grip even more on his hands, and heard her whisper: “Because you’re my friend. Because you’re Harry Potter … the boy who came after me when he realized that I didn’t know about the troll in the castle … the one who went after Ginny in the Chamber of Secrets … who went after Ron in the Shrieking Shack because he was in danger … who brought back Cedric Diggory’s body because he made a promise to his ghost … who wanted to avoid his friends because he was afraid that he might attack them if Voldemort possessed him.”

His chest tightened as he heard her litany, and he tried to answer, but her hands on his made him stop and turn away as she continued: “I’m sorry about Sirius, Harry – I really am. But I cannot feel the way you feel, because I never knew him that well. You’re the one I know well, you’re the one who’s saved me, you’re the one who’s looked out for me, you’re the one I care for …”

He heard her give a sharp breath and he turned back to her – and felt her flinging her arms around him and bury her head in his chest. Automatically, his arms went around her and he found himself resting his head on her bushy head of hair, stroking her back and rocking her slowly as she whimpered, “I’m sorry about Sirius, Harry – I really am. But I’d rather have you here … I don’t know what I’ll do if you were gone, I’m sorry if I sound selfish, but I cannot bear the thought of losing you … don’t you see that, Harry? Can’t you see that?”

He didn’t answer, he couldn’t respond with his lips buried in her hair, his fingers automatically stroking her back as he tried to calm her – his mind a whirring dervish of images and emotions as if a badly cut-up film was running behind the flesh of his tightly squeezed eyes: of Hermione looking as if she wanted to climb into his bed and hug him when Madam Pomfrey finally let them in to see him; Hermione running towards him in the Great Hall to slam into him with such force that he almost fell backward into the feast laid out on their table; Hermione making a small squeaky noise, eyes bloodshot, as she stared at him lying in his bed after the Dementor attack during their game against Hufflepuff; Hermione’s white face with reddened fingernail marks all over where she had been clutching her face in fear as he battled the Horntail – and her pale, frightened face when he’d walked into this very room after the Third Task …

She wouldn’t know … she couldn’t understand … she would never be able to know how he felt now with Sirius gone – because he had, for one reason or another, always been able to come out alive – and she had, almost always, been there to see him when he woke up.

But what if she didn’t wake up from this? How would he have felt if Sirius had not died – but Hermione had died instead?

From the bruised and battered corner of his heart where the memories of Cedric Diggory and Sirius Black resided, a cold wave – colder than the auras of a hundred Dementors – coiled out and washed through him.

How would he feel, he wondered as he stroked her hair and back, if that had happened? He’d had Sirius in his life for a few short, precious weeks – days in which he’d come to view him as both father and brother … but that was only because of what he’d had as an alternative: the spotlessly clean, loveless atmosphere of No. 4 Privet Drive with Uncle Dudley’s constant anger, Aunt Petunia’s studied indifference, and Dudley’s moronic bullying to deal with. Staying with Sirius was an escape, a dream of living with someone who loved him, someone who would truly care for him, something that had been denied him for years.

But he’d had Hermione with him for five years and so many adventures … as he’d had Ron by his side for as long and as many escapades. Through all that time, they’d shown him the loyalty and affection that he so missed at Privet Drive – the main reason, he realized now, that he felt a wrenching loss every time he watched Hogwarts disappearing from view, the reason why there had always been that errant thought of not leaving the Hogwarts Express every time it pulled into King’s Cross station at the end of every school year.

It wasn’t the school that he would miss during the lonely summer weeks – it was the constant chatter of Hermione as she worried about classes, assignments and the latest threat to his life and his sanity; it was the constant companionship of Ron as they played wizard’s chess or Exploding Snap, and his unceasing fascination with Quidditch and the meals in the Great Hall, as well as the endless supply of sweets that Honeydukes had to offer.

He shook his head as another thought blasted through his mind. He’d used the Cruciatus Curse on Bellatrix Lestrange -- used it in his blind anger and hatred of her for killing Sirius -- but it was a useless effort because, as the crazed woman had yelled, “You need to mean them, Potter! You need to really want to cause pain - to enjoy it - righteous anger won’t hurt me for long …”

But if it had been Hermione or Ron – he felt anger, and pain, and loss licking through his veins and muscles – he didn’t doubt he would have used the Killing Curse and meant it. He heard his rapid, harsh breathing as the thought of losing his best friends swirled in his mind – and realized, with a shock, that Hermione was whimpering … that he’d been squeezing her too tightly to him as his jumbled, wearied mind sought to both comfort her and reassure himself of her presence in his arms.

He forced himself to release her; felt her arms around his neck grip him tighter yet, even as she took a deep, shuddering breath as the constriction he’d imposed on her battered chest eased off. He placed his hands on her shoulders and gently pushed her back, and he felt the arms around him let go – but only slightly.

He heard her rambling on: how sorry she was about Sirius, how miserable she felt because she could not understand or accept his pain, berating herself in the same pained breath for not being able to feel as he felt – and he kept shushing her, trying to murmur words of comfort over her rambling, until finally he pushed her away gently from him and held her at arm’s length.

It was the first time, he realized, that he had really, really looked at her.

He had seen her in every conceivable mood that he could think of – laughing and angry, terrified and determined, happy and sad, compassionate and unsympathetic … he had always accepted each and every emotion that she had shown with empathy for the situations that triggered those reactions from her.

Accepted, yes -- but never really appreciated the depth of concern and caring that she had for him. He had accepted it all as his due, received it as his expected reward for all the burdens that life had given him – and never really thought of the toll that her concern, support and loyalty for him had cost her.

He’d never really understood it until that moment when he thought he’d lost her. And he, stupid, dumb prat that he was, had allowed the loss of Sirius to cloud his thoughts – and he wondered if it had been the combination of the near-loss of his best friend and the actual loss of his godfather that had led to the emotional roller-coaster that he’d been in since the moment he’d taken the portkey to Dumbledore’s office.

He had lost his godfather and almost lost his best friend, but – and he asked himself again – what would he feel if the situation had been reversed? What if he had lost his best friend of five years – but had not lost Sirius? He felt his heart wrenching and pushed the thought away.

He realized that Hermione had fallen silent and was looking at him with mingled fear and apprehension, steeling herself for another emotional and hurting outburst from him. His heart went out to her as his kaleidoscopic mind started to whirl again with the memory of the times when she had looked at him in this same way – all those moments since their first year when he had set his mind on the actions that he felt were right and she had swallowed down her fears and doubts -- and set her mind to helping him …

He felt himself drawing closer to her … leaning forward until his forehead was almost touching hers, his arms on her shoulders as he looked into her teary eyes, and heard himself whispering, “I’m sorry, Hermione … sorry for putting you through all these … sorry for everything I’ve put you through …”

In the back of his mind, however, he was apologizing to Sirius – asking forgiveness for bringing about the situation leading to his death. At the same time, with a feeling of remorse, he admitted to himself that he was thankful that Sirius was not able to ask for an honest answer to that question – who would he rather lose, Hermione or Sirius?

From the depths of his roiling memories, an image of Sirius appeared – relaxed, happily watching his extended family around him in a warmly-lit sitting room in Grimmaud Place: Ginny, Hermione and Tonks in a corner, chatting about whatever it is that women found so interesting; Ron, Fred and George in another corner ostensibly playing Exploding Snap while keeping a wary eye out for their mother; Sirius and himself sipping butterbeers as they watched the roaring blaze …

“Home is where your heart is, Harry,” Sirius had said in a soft, contemplative voice. He waved his hand around at the room, although he was actually indicating the whole house and continued, “This was never my home, Harry – because my heart was never in it. I finally found my home with your grandparents when I stayed with them and your dad …”

He broke off and gripped Harry’s arm tight: “Keep that in mind, son – don’t ever forget that. Whether you’re staying at the Dursleys, or at Hogwarts, or here … whether you will be able to join me or not … always keep that in mind: Home is where your heart is.”

With a sense of loss, he felt himself letting Sirius go a little as he answered his own question: at this point, even the mere thought of losing Hermione would kill him.

Because doing so would mean losing his home.

“Oi, you two! Get a room!”

The sleepy, lethargic and sluggish voice broke the moment – and they moved apart, both of them turning with a smile to their other best friend … and blinked, as they realized that Ron was still fast asleep in the other bed.

It was the person standing beside Ron’s bed who had spoken – and the realization sprung loose a rapid-fire series of desperate thoughts through Harry’s befuddled mind: envy at Fred and George’s ability to Apparate, that it was impossible to Apparate or Disapparate from Hogwarts, followed by a rapid review of Practical Defensive Magic in a futile attempt to find a charm to conjure up a nice, big, deep and dark hole that he could hide in – and one corner of his brain telling him that Hermione was thinking the same thoughts.

Remus Lupin.

He looked as if he had gone through another full-moon transformation – gaunt, pale, dark circles under his eyes, hair even grayer than ever in sharp contrast to his young face. His eyes held an incredible mix of pain and loss, and Harry felt Hermione’s hand clutch him tightly for a brief moment in sympathy.

But there was a faint wisp of a smile about his lips as he watched the two teens sitting on the other bed.

“Watch it, Harry,” he said, his smile expanding just that tiny bit more. For a brief, hysterical moment, Harry could have sworn that he’d said ‘Wotcher, Harry!’ in an unconscious mimicry of Tonks, before he gave a swift glance around the room. “You’re lucky that Poppy isn’t around right now or she’ll have your hide nailed to the door outside for … disturbing her patients.”

For a brief moment, Harry felt the blood rushing to his head; from the uncomfortable sensation of heat he could feel, he suspected that Hermione was blushing so badly that he could get sunburned being this close to her – which thought made him realize that he was still sitting close to her. With a start, he quickly leaped to his feet and gently pushed Hermione back on her bed, ignoring the muffled “Tut! Tut!” from the still- befuddled Ron.

He’d moved at just the right time – within seconds of making sure that Hermione was comfortable, they heard footsteps approaching them and --

“Hem, hem,” the nurse said in a disapproving tone of voice, although a definitely wickedly amused gleam could be seen in her eyes. “Mr. Potter, Remus – I suggest you clear out for the moment. I just got word that the Headmaster is coming here with … the High Inquisitor. And also, these two,” nodding her head at Ron and Hermione, “have some things to take.”

“Do I have to, Madam Pomfrey?” Hermione replied in a plaintive voice. “You’re making me take ten different potions … they all taste horrible.”

“Hush, child,” replied the matron. “You either take them now … or you won’t be out of here as fast as I think you want to get out.”

Harry gave a small chuckle, which earned him a diluted version of Hermione’s patented death-glare. Before she could say anything more, he quickly and unobtrusively gave her hand a small squeeze. He quickly glanced at Remus and Madam Pomfrey (neither of whom were looking at them), and quickly and unobtrusively brushed his lips against her fingers.

“I’ll see you later,” he whispered to her. She gave him a tremulous smile and took a deep breath as she faced the approaching nurse, a smoking goblet in each hand.

As he walked out, he heard Sirius’ voice in his head: ‘Home is where your heart is, Harry.’

‘I know, Sirius, I know,’ he thought. He paused and looked back at a madly coughing Hermione, who had just choked down the contents of one goblet ...

‘I’m home now.’

End

Apologies

Author name: Romulus Lupin
Author email: galigad@yahoo.com
Category: Drama / Angst
Sub Category: Romance
Keywords: Hermione Dumbledore The Little Prince
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers:SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, OotP
Summary: It is the day after Harry and his friends’ encounter with Voldemort and the Death Eaters in the Ministry of Magic. After Harry had left the Hospital Wing, Dumbledore comes in and talks with Hermione about what transpired.
DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. The same holds true for “The Little Prince” by Antoine Marie Roger de-St. Exupery and whoever currently holds the copyright for that most wonderful of books.

Author notes: “Apologies” was originally planned as a one-shot fic, which is why there is a “The End” at the end of that story. Unfortunately for me, the plot bunny wouldn’t let me be … and I do not know how far this story, or the bunny, would go. So, please accept my apologies for thinking that I had ended the story.

I would also like to thank all those who have reviewed “Apologies” – a number too many to list here. My deepest gratitude for your kind and lovely words.

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.