Chapter 5. Repentance
The following morning was light and breezy. Harry Potter sat on a bench in the courtyard behind his apartment building watching his pet owl, Hedwig, fly in a large figure eight pattern over his head. He loved to watch Hedwig play. As the bird aged, however, she seemed to be losing her instinct for steering clear of Muggles, and Harry had a time of it trying to convince her to sleep during the day and save her flying for the nighttime. "You crazy bird, you!" Harry chided playfully as Hedwig looped out of her eight pattern and landed on her owner's shoulder. She gave a muted coo, and then jerked suddenly, ruffling her feathers and pointing her beak angrily toward the North.
"What's the ruckus, girl?" Harry asked. "Oh, I see. We've got company," he said as he calmed Hedwig by petting her smooth feathers in gentle, long strokes.
A brown, tawny owl flew into sight and dropped a roll of parchment from at least twenty feet above Harry's head. The intruder was clearly not keen to get any closer to Harry's protector, not even bothering to collect a payment. Harry laughed and shook Hedwig off his shoulder, bending over to retrieve his letter from the patchy lawn beneath him. Not daring to open a roll of parchment received from an owl in broad daylight, he stuffed the letter into a pocket of his cargo shorts and stood up to go inside. As he reached the back doorway to his apartment building, Harry whistled for Hedwig to come in as well, and she obediently returned to her perch on Harry's third floor balcony.
After reading the morning's Prophet and settling down to a second cup of coffee, Harry removed the scroll from his pocket and unrolled the parchment, chuckling at its contents. The letter was from Hermione.
"Dear Harry,
I'm sending a note via owl post as I didn't want to chance using the Floo network, in case someone was with you. I had to borrow the owl from the ministry, I hope he made it okay. Anyway Harry, I wanted to apologize for my behavior last night. You have always been a wonderful friend, and I'm afraid that I used you a bit. I feel dreadful. Please be advised that I am going to church at 9:00 a.m. at Saint Mary's a block from my flat this morning where I shall hopefully get officially cleansed. You can join me if you'd like to witness my repentance.
Love, Hermione"
Harry flicked his wand at the wall, still smiling to himself. Brilliant while letters appeared in ornate script that read "Twenty and two past the hour of seven" glowing harshly and then immediately fading away. "Church it is, then," he said, pocketing his wand and heading toward the bathroom to get ready for the service.
A half-hour later, Hermione sat serenely on a crowded pew of Saint Mary's Catholic Church. She was staring distractedly at multi-colored rays that streamed in through the many stained glass windows. Although she had not been raised Catholic, Hermione had found Saint Mary's on her very first walk around her new neighborhood after moving in three years earlier, and fell in love with it. Something about the century-old building and the friendly parishioners had charmed her, and she had been a weekly visitor ever since - though not usually rising to the occasion of such an early service. It felt good to have someplace to be on a Sunday, and Hermione felt that being among the other church goers somehow brought her closer to her muggle roots, as it brought back memories of attending masses with her parents as a young child.
The early hour, though, made everything unfamiliar, Hermione thought. She would normally just be getting into the shower at nine o'clock but guilt and restlessness had robbed the troubled witch of her Sunday morning lie in on this day, and she had decided to get an early start on a cleaner life. Sending Harry a quick note of apology had been her first act of reconciliation, and her conscious was already feeling much less burdened.
A tap on her shoulder jolted Hermione out of her trance. Swinging her head around, she let out a gasp as she spotted Harry sitting behind her, ruffling through a psalm book and smiling. Hermione gave a little wave and opened her mouth to ask what Harry was doing in her church, but was stopped by a surge of organ music, which signaled the start of the service. As the ceremony carried on, Hermione stole a few glances at her friend, and made an attempt to inquire whether something was wrong with a questioning tilt of her head, eyebrows raised and mouth slightly open. Harry had only smiled and waved in response, returning to his psalm book and smirking.
Hermione couldn't help but feel rather uncomfortable that Harry had accepted the invitation she had offered in jest. Had he felt obliged somehow to take her up on any suggestion now, somehow afraid to hurt her feelings now that she'd basically laid them out in despicable fashion in his living room? As the recessional music sounded, she found Harry waiting for her at the end of her pew, clearly expecting to walk her out.
"Harry, I can't believe you came!" Hermione said, collecting Harry's psalm book and stacking it on top of her own as they walked down the aisle toward the exit.
"You invited me. I wanted to see you get beaten with rosaries or something," Harry replied. "I have to say, you look remarkably unpunished."
"I was joking!" Hermione said, laughing. "I didn't mean to presume that you should attend church with me - especially after spending all of Saturday together!"
"Oh," Harry replied simply. "I didn't get the joke."
"Oh, probably because it wasn't all that funny," Hermione said, feeling a bit embarrassed. Squinting into the bright sunbeam as they entered the church's lobby, she smiled and plunked the psalm books into giant oak shelves. Harry fit his arm into Hermione's elbow and the two walked side-by-side through the doors. "I shouldn't attempt humor before nine o'clock," Hermione said.
"If at all," Harry retorted. He smiled warmly as Hermione slapped his elbow. Though it was sunny outside and there were only a few cottony clouds, a light rain had begun to fall. Hermione looked around to see if there was an out of the way spot from which to Apparate.
"No, no, young lady," Harry scolded. "I know what you're thinking. No laziness on your day of repentance." He tightened his grip on her arm and marched briskly down the stone steps. "Come on, it's only a bit of a drizzle."
Hermione nodded her reluctant agreement and the pair hurried down the street toward her flat. They didn't talk during the trip to Hermione's, but stopped twice to wipe rain from their eyes, laughing. Once they reached the apartment building, Hermione invited Harry in for a late breakfast, suggesting that they could watch the football game together or listen to Quidditch on the wireless. She had only asked out of politeness, but was surprised for the second time that day when Harry cast drying spells on them both, made himself comfortable on her sofa, and said that he couldn't think of a better way to spend a rainy day.
"If he thinks spending a second day in a row with another witch - especially one that so recently hit on him - would endear himself to Tiffany…" Hermione thought, but she quickly decided against mentioning the inappropriateness of the situation to Harry. Instead, she quietly slipped into the kitchen and made breakfast, which she and Harry ate in her living room. The two old friends ate in silence, except for the constant hum of a Quidditch pre-game analysis that Harry had found on the wireless. Hermione savored the feeling of coziness that enveloped her. She had become accustomed to living alone in her London flat, but had never particularly embraced the idea of solitary meals. Eating by oneself, she thought, seemed so terribly lonely now when thinking back on all the luscious and laughter-filled feasts she'd shared at Hogwarts or The Burrow, or her own family's home years ago.
Not the least interested in Quidditch and still feeling quite pensive, Hermione's mind eventually made its way back to the subject of Harry and Tiffany. She again considered warning Harry that spending time in her company could be problematic to a fledgling romance, but couldn't quite bring herself to the task. He looked so cozy on her sofa, stuffed full of eggs and toast and reading the Daily Prophet happily. Hermione also had no desire to discuss Tiffany, relationships, or anything else that might conjure up memories of her despicable behavior of the previous night. So she resolved for a second time to keep her opinions to herself, and settled down to her reading.
The morning passed lazily as the two friends lounged in Hermione's living room. Though the weather had started out quite nice in the morning, a steady rain had persisted, making the afternoon dark and gray. With no sunlight, the flat appeared dreary as it was lit only by fire and several very bright candles that hung on sconces on each wall. Except for having a few kitchen appliances and the television, Hermione, like Harry and most magical people who lived among Muggles, lived mostly in wizard fashion while inside the confines of her magically protected home. Despite her Muggle upbringing, using magic had just become more comfortable to Hermione than flipping switches and such.
As they wiled away the damp Sunday morning, Harry made periodic attempts to engage Hermione in discussions regarding football statistics, looking up occasionally from the Prophet which he had been reading with vigor.
"Uh huh," she would reply until at last Harry smiled and shook his head.
"Sorry," he said, "I forget sometimes that not everyone thinks the sports page is that interesting."
"Perfectly alright," Hermione returned, looking up from the textbook that she herself had been fully engaged in. "Just watch yourself or I'll begin quoting `Genealogy of Magical Plant Species' to you."
She flipped a page and took a deep breath, preparing to recite from the text.
"No! Please!" Harry pleaded. "I swear I won't do it again. Just please don't read that appalling textbook to me." He peered over his newspaper to see that Hermione was already half lost to her reading again. "When are you going to finish school anyway? The rest of us were done ages ago," he said, offering a smile. "You're a slow one, you are."
"Oh, ha ha," Hermione chortled, contracting her face in a look that signaled she was not in the least amused. "There's always an interesting course at the University. Every time I pick up a new course schedule, I find a new subject that interests me and I just have to sign up for it. I'm a bit addicted, I suppose," she said, crinkling her nose in distaste.
"No surprise there," Harry said. "It's another one of those things that makes you you."
"Awe…that's nice," Hermione replied, giving a smile and then returning to her reading.
Hermione wondered briefly how long Harry would stay, but she eventually relaxed, taking Harry's lead. He seemed content to just spend time with her, and as she hadn't planned on going out anyway, she settled in to finishing her reading and watching Harry. He seemed so grown up now, so much the bachelor.
Some hours later, Hermione reflected how nice it was that Harry's presence hadn't distracted her at all from her studying. She couldn't stop herself, however, from noticing that her Harry friend was one huge sports fan. She marveled at how he adeptly watched a football match on the television while listening to a Quidditch match on the wireless. Commentators and text banners also kept him apprised of other ongoing matches all the while. Hermione was simply aghast that her friend was able to take in so much information simultaneously. "And he thinks I'm addicted," she mused.
After the Quidditch match ended, Harry waved his wand, silencing the television and wireless connections. The Muggle football match that he'd been watching had long ago been decided - against Harry's team - and his sports addiction seemed to have been satisfied for the afternoon.
"Mind if I use the kitchen for a bit?" Harry asked as he stretched and folded the Prophet neatly, placing it on Hermione's side table.
"Why? Are you hungry? I could get us something to eat," Hermione responded, setting her book aside and stretching.
"Yes, to the hungry part. No, to you getting it. I'm perfectly able to fix us a proper meal," Harry insisted.
"Okay," Hermione said, smiling at Harry and looking doubtful.
Harry fumbled his way through his friend's cupboards as he prepared sandwiches and tea, showing off his kitchen skills which, as Hermione had observed, were entirely Muggle. Harry had never bothered to learn so much as a slicing charm. He set the table, not worrying himself over matching the dishes or silverware, and called on Hermione to join him.
For a while, the two friends ate again in relative silence. Harry found himself to be lost in thought, despite the fact that he wasn't alone, as he munched on his grilled cheese and tomato sandwich. He was reliving the very interesting visit from his former girlfriend on the previous Friday night. Tiffany had shown up out of nowhere, knocking on Harry's door and delivering quite a shock. They hugged, she cried, and then she told him how much she had missed him.
Harry had been involved with a handful of pretty witches since graduating from school. Each relationship had lasted a bit longer than half a year and each had ended pretty much in the same manner. This was the first time he had ever been presented with the option of getting back together, and Harry wasn't exactly sure whether he thought the chances of having anything turn out better the second time around were good. But, loneliness and a desire to succeed in this troublesome aspect of his life had led him to welcome Tiffany into his apartment and back into his arms.
They hadn't talked much. Instead, they kissed passionately and ended up panting and clawing at each other - both full of raw need and hunger - making their way into Harry's bedroom not long after Tiffany had arrived. Absence, it seemed, had led to some interesting feelings for each of them, fueling their desire. Somewhere in the evening, before leaving Harry's flat, Tiffany had managed to ask a few questions and Harry had done his best to give the answers that he expected she wanted to hear.
Now in Hermione's kitchen, Harry sat staring at the yellow and blue floral wallpaper and shiny white cupboards, finishing the last bits of his sandwich. He had rather hoped that he could ask Hermione's advice on how to become more of the wizard that Tiffany wanted - deserved - but he was having trouble deciding just how to begin such a conversation. It was Hermione who started it after all, as she seemed to have picked up on Harry's reflective mood.
"Everything alright, Harry?" she asked. Hermione was standing over her sink, waving her wand around to clean up after lunch. "It would put a rather nice cap on my redemption day if I could help out the very friend I offended." She gave Harry an encouraging smile and then looked away, giving him a moment of privacy in case he wanted to decline her offer. Instead, however, Harry looked up rather eagerly, folded his hands in front of him and looked at Hermione as if she was a teacher standing at the foot of a classroom. Hermione let out a tiny snicker at the image Harry was conveying, and then forced her face back into an expression of light concern.
"Hermione," Harry began, "I need help. I need to figure out something. Something personal…but…important."
Walking over to the table, Hermione studied her friend attentively. She drew her wand and waved it at a tea kettle on the stove, quietly ordering it to boil. They sat in silence as Hermione went about the paces of making tea, and soon they sat with cups in hand and thoughtful looks on their faces as Hermione waited patiently for Harry to elaborate.
"This is hard," he stated. Hermione didn't reply but sat still for another moment, looking at her mug of steaming tea.
"She wants...Tiffany, that is…She wants to make it work. She said we were great together and that perhaps she should have given me more time." Harry paused, looking out the window over Hermione's sink and then shrugged his shoulders as if to give up on any further attempts at this unpleasant conversation.
"Harry," Hermione said, putting a hand over his on the table, "you really want to make this work with Tiffany too, don't you?"
Harry nodded in agreement, meeting her eyes then looking at their hands.
"Maybe you should tell me why she broke up with you in the first place," Hermione said in a gentle voice.
Frowning, Harry took a moment to form his response. "Same reason everyone else did," he said, defeated. "If it were something different, then I'd feel hopeful that I could fix myself and make it last." He took a breath and let out a sigh. "But, it's always that same thing."
"The sports thing?" Hermione asked, sipping her tea.
"Sports thing? Oh…no," Harry said, smiling and shaking his head. "Bet that can get a bit annoying though, huh?" he continued. "No, it's just that eventually whomever I'm with gets frustrated with me because I don't talk. About myself. I don't…share. They feel left out. I used to shrug it off as neediness on their part, but - as you pointed out - if they all say the same thing, it's bound to be true."
"I said that about compliments," Hermione said, giving a nervous smile. "Although, I supposed it holds true for insults as well," she added.
"They weren't trying to insult me, it's just that it hurts them," Harry said quietly. "Tiffany says that she can see us getting married." Hermione swallowed a huge gulp of tea and looked down at the table. "Someday," Harry continued, "but not if she doesn't know the circumstances of my past."
"What does she want to know?" Hermione asked. Setting down her mug, she gave Harry's fingers a little squeeze and looked up at him thoughtfully.
"About my family. What the Muggles were like who raised me. About my scar. About Voldemort. The works."
Harry took a sip of tea and willed himself to keep talking, drawing a measure of comfort from the hot liquid as it made a warm trail down his throat. "It's such a simple thing, really," he continued. "I don't mean to be secretive, I just…I just can't bring myself to talk about any of it with them. I've got some kind of mental block. Something's wrong with me and I'm going to die alone." Harry said this quickly, closing his eyes and taking another deep breath. He felt deeply embarrassed for saying so much. He had only meant to ask Hermione to help him to be more "open" in general terms. But once he started talking, Harry discovered, the weight of the consequences of his "problem" propelled him to empty the entire load, right there on her kitchen table. Harry looked up at Hermione, squinting his eyes and bracing himself for her diagnosis.
Hermione studied Harry, filling up with the long-held tenderness she felt for her friend. His brow was furrowed and he sat there looking to Hermione like a lost child. She spoke slowly and carefully, holding Harry's eyes in an effort to drive her words straight into him.
"Harry, nothing's wrong with you. Nothing, really. You're a little bit broken, that's all, after all that you've been through."
The harshness of her own words tugged at Hermione's heart and she suddenly felt her voice catch in her throat. Out of nowhere, tears had found their way to the corners of her eyes and she tried unsuccessfully to fight them off. Hermione continued to hold Harry's gaze, letting her words sink in a bit before continuing.
"A bit broken…that sounds like something's wrong to me," Harry said, attempting a half-smile before dropping his eyelids closed.
"No, it's nothing we can't fix, you and me. Harry," Hermione choked, "I can help you."
For a moment, Harry's heart lifted. He felt like grabbing his dearest friend and swinging her around the room. Did she really have a cure for his male insensitivity? Then, just as suddenly as hope had filled him, it vaporized as an errant thought presented itself. Harry recalled a Mediwitch advising him once to use Veritaserum in order to unburden his mind and knew that it was common practice for mild mental illness. Surely, Hermione was aware of this and was about to suggest it. What else could help? Harry shuddered. There was no way he going to drink that stuff and relive every awful detail of his tragic youth.
His despair was coming back in full force now as Harry convinced himself, once again, that he was destined for a lonely life. "Old Voldemort will be tap-dancing in his grave," he thought, sulking heavily under his closed eyelids. A breeze flew in through the open window, rumpling the eyelet curtains and tickling Harry's face. When he opened his eyes, Harry noticed that Hermione was still staring at him and a little tear was now dripping off of her cheek.
"Harry," she said, "you don't tell them - Tiffany and these other witches of yours - because they don't deserve to hear it. They have no right to ask."
Harry looked ready to pounce on her in defense of his ex-girlfriends, but Hermione continued bravely.
"You were a baby, Harry, and they made you stay with those awful Muggles, away from anyone who could care for you properly. The whole wizarding community stood by while you suffered. You were a child when you fought their enemy. They put the weight of our world on your seventeen-year-old shoulders, Harry." Hermione's voice was shaking and tears were now falling freely onto her blouse.
"You don't talk to them because they wanted you to be the one to kill him. They rooted for you, but nobody stepped in. You'll never, ever admit it, Harry, but deep down - way deep down in the remotest part of your soul - you resent them."
Harry was still staring at their hands. His eyes glistened but no tears fell. He was breathing irregularly, quite affected by Hermione's speech. Shocked, really. The two friends sat in the bright kitchen - Hermione stroking Harry's hand softly, Harry trying to control his emotions and Hermione still thinking.
"That's why we can talk about it, all of it, you and me and Ron," Hermione said after a few moments of silence. "It's because we were there, we helped you. We saw you raise that heavy pewter sword that Gryffindor himself had once used, and stab that foul bastard in the heart. We felt your pain and we would gladly - gladly - have taken your place."
Hermione paused and wiped her eyes, calmer now. "Who would have ever thought that the wizard willing to die, the wizard who pushed aside his own fear and hatred, the only wizard who risked his own soul to kill an enemy to all wizards…that this wizard would ever be asked to explain himself." She looked out the window, her sad look now replaced with one of fierceness. "It's unimaginable, really."
Harry looked up after a bit and stared at his friend, studying her profile. With a slight hitching in his throat, he managed to whisper, "Thank you," and he looked out the window too.
"Don't mention it," Hermione whispered back, a few more teardrops escaping as she said it.
They drank their tea and exchanged a bit of small talk, giving each other some time to bring their emotions to rest before carrying on with their day. Harry gave Hermione a firm embrace and thanked her again "for, you know…everything" and Apparated home with a little trickle of hope mixed in with his other feelings. He smiled when he arrived at his flat, marveling once again at how amazing Hermione's sense of perception was. To Harry, she was a witch of unparalleled wisdom, and he'd go to his grave in complete awe of her.
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