Chapter 6
Revelation
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Waterloo: N., 1. (literal) site of the final battle of the Napoleonic Wars where Napoleon and his army were finally defeated.
2. (figurative language) metaphor referring to a final defeat after a long guest, usually of conquest.
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The Grangers insisted that Harry stay with them until the school year started again. Harry did not want to impede upon the Granger's privacy but Harry certainly did not want to spend the rest of the summer with the Dursleys. Ron and Ginny had wanted for Harry to go back to the Burrow with them. However, Mrs. Weasley had decided against it as a punishment for Ron, who had not done as well on his grades as his mother had hoped. And so Harry occupied the spare guest room on the second floor.
By the day after the party, the Weasleys had cleared out of the house and Hermione's parent had set out on the grueling task of cleaning the house up after them. While the adults were slaving away, Harry and Hermione spent most of their time either sitting outside and talking, or doing their homework. Their conversations were far-ranging in topic. Sometimes they would speak about schoolwork and other times they would wonder what their other friends from school were doing. Hermione spent a lot of time describing her summer trip with Victor Krum, although Harry noticed that she did not mention him in excess; she mostly spoke of the countryside and the amazing places she had seen. Sometimes Harry would talk about how the various Quidditch teams were faring, although Hermione was never an avid conversationalist on this topic. For the most part though, Harry kept very quiet, leaving most of the talking to Hermione. He still had not told either Hermione or Ron that he was a Prefect.
On a cool Sunday afternoon, two weeks away from the beginning of the new school year, Hermione and Harry decided to go for a walk. Despite the fact that he had been living with the Grangers for some time now, Harry had still not had much of a chance to see the surrounding city. They set off down the sidewalk at a brisk pace with a light breeze at their backs, and walked down the sidewalk past the rows of brick houses. The trees bent over them in such a way that they were veiled within a cool shadow. As usual, Hermione did most of the talking. She was describing a frozen lake near Victor's home that they had gone boating on.
"Oh, and it was so beautiful!" she said. "The water was crystal clear and the mountain air was so crisp and cool that it made me want to go swimming in the lake. Of course we didn't, that would have been out of the question, considering the temperature of the water, but oh! It was so wonderful! I wish I could go back again, and this time I…Harry, what is it?"
Harry had paused in his walking several feet behind her and was staring at an old beaten up mailbox that she hadn't noticed before.
"Oh, my God," Harry said incredulously. "It's impossible."
"What is it?" Hermione repeated, slowly walking towards Harry, and she looked down at the mailbox. The sight took her breath away.
Written on the mailbox in dirty but legible bold-faced letters was the name: Potter.
"I…I…" Hermione stammered. She simply could not think of anything to say.
"Oh, my God," Harry said, slowly raising his head. "It's my house."
Hermione lifted her head to sight almost as startling as the mail post. Before them, they saw the remains of what must have once been a glorious house but now only retained a shadow of its former beauty. Little of the house still stood, and that which did was rotten and covered with mold. The rest was in shambles. Planks of wood littered the ground, the paint on them chipped and corroded. The debris was spread out, originating from a point within the house. The grass had long since died and shriveled up, leaving the property a barren wasteland. Within the rubble, pieces of furniture, both whole and broken, lay in various states of decay. Hermione saw such household implements as a shattered coffee mug, a bureau with a broken leg, rusty silverware strewn upon the ground, and a raggedy old doll, a child's plaything. Looking towards the decayed door, Hermione could see "Potter" was also written on the brass doorknocker.
"This is…" Harry stammered. "This is my old house. This is where my parents and I went into hiding during the war. This is where Voldemort…" He choked, tears beginning to form at the corner of his eyes. "This must be where my parents were murdered." His eyes lingered at the small crater in the center of the house. Slowly, he walked forward. He came to the center of the crater and stood silently, his eyes shut, his head hung low. He could feel the hot tears welling out of his eyes. Behind him, he heard Hermione slowly walking towards him. Not wanting her to see him in such a state, he quickly lifted his arm and wiped the tears away. As she got closer to him, he could hear the charred wood crunching underneath her feet. When she was right behind him, she stopped.
"So," she said more to herself than to Harry. "This is where Voldemort met his Waterloo."
Harry's eyes opened slightly as he contemplated her statement. 'No, that's not right,' He thought.
"No," Harry firmly, startling her. "It's not. This wasn't his Waterloo. If it was, Cedric would still be alive."
"It wasn't your fault Harry," she answered.
"Then whose was it?" he asked, his voice beginning to rise in anger, but not at Hermione.
Hermione walked around Harry to look him in the face. She lifted her hands and placed them on his shoulders, her deep brown eyes staring intently into his. When she spoke, her words carried a force uncharacteristic of her normal voice with emphasis on each word.
"It wasn't your fault" she repeated.
"It wasn't my fault, the whose was it?!" Harry bellowed.
"Voldemort's" Hermione said, her words like ice. "Why are you blaming yourself? You didn't know what was waiting for you, you didn't cast the spell. The only person who is responsible is Voldemort."
Hermione's words cut through Harry like a blade. Harry could not recall Hermione ever referring to the Dark Lord by his real name before. He could count on one hand the number of people he knew who did that regularly. Then the actual meaning of her words hit Harry like a bludger. 'She can't know,' he thought. 'She can't understand what it was like. She wasn't there. She didn't see him when he-'
Then it hit him. She was right. It wasn't his fault. Everything was Voldemort's fault. All the pain, all the loss, it was all his fault. He was innocent. Right?
"Hermione," Harry said, his voice very quiet.
"What is it, Harry?" she responded.
"I…" he stuttered. "There…there's something I need to tell you."
"What is it Harry?" she asked, her voice now shaking with anxiety.
"You have to promise me…promise me that you won't tell anyone. Especially Ron."
"Of course, Harry," her brown eyes widening in anticipation. "Anything at all."
"I…" he tried to speak but his mouth was too dry. "I'm a Prefect."
The silence was deafening. Hermione kept looking at Harry, but he had averted his eyes. Finally, she blinked.
"Oh," she said matter-of-factly. "Well, that's great Harry, us both being Prefects. I mean, it's a real honor to be one, and I'm sure it will be great. We'll have special privileges and-"
"No, you don't understand," Harry interrupted. "I can't be a Prefect."
"Well, why not?" she asked, a puzzled look on her face.
"Don't you remember anything from last year?" Harry asked. "Remember what happened with Ron? He went out of his skull when I was chosen as a House Champion. I can't imagine how he'll react if I tell him this. He'll think I'm going out of my way to be better than him."
"That's silly, Harry!" she said, almost laughing at Harry's paranoia. "Ron won't-" She caught herself as she actually put some thought into what she was going to say. "Well…listen Harry. I know that Ron can be a real dunce sometimes, but deep down, you and I both know that he wants the best for you. You know that, right?"
Harry closed his eyes again and was silent again for several moments.
"I hope you're right, Hermione," he said, his eyes still closed. "I hope you're right."
"Well of course I'm right," she said. "I mean, come on. This is me we're talking about."
Revelation
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------
Waterloo: N., 1. (literal) site of the final battle of the Napoleonic Wars where Napoleon and his army were finally defeated.
2. (figurative language) metaphor referring to a final defeat after a long guest, usually of conquest.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------
The Grangers insisted that Harry stay with them until the school year started again. Harry did not want to impede upon the Granger's privacy but Harry certainly did not want to spend the rest of the summer with the Dursleys. Ron and Ginny had wanted for Harry to go back to the Burrow with them. However, Mrs. Weasley had decided against it as a punishment for Ron, who had not done as well on his grades as his mother had hoped. And so Harry occupied the spare guest room on the second floor.
By the day after the party, the Weasleys had cleared out of the house and Hermione's parent had set out on the grueling task of cleaning the house up after them. While the adults were slaving away, Harry and Hermione spent most of their time either sitting outside and talking, or doing their homework. Their conversations were far-ranging in topic. Sometimes they would speak about schoolwork and other times they would wonder what their other friends from school were doing. Hermione spent a lot of time describing her summer trip with Victor Krum, although Harry noticed that she did not mention him in excess; she mostly spoke of the countryside and the amazing places she had seen. Sometimes Harry would talk about how the various Quidditch teams were faring, although Hermione was never an avid conversationalist on this topic. For the most part though, Harry kept very quiet, leaving most of the talking to Hermione. He still had not told either Hermione or Ron that he was a Prefect.
On a cool Sunday afternoon, two weeks away from the beginning of the new school year, Hermione and Harry decided to go for a walk. Despite the fact that he had been living with the Grangers for some time now, Harry had still not had much of a chance to see the surrounding city. They set off down the sidewalk at a brisk pace with a light breeze at their backs, and walked down the sidewalk past the rows of brick houses. The trees bent over them in such a way that they were veiled within a cool shadow. As usual, Hermione did most of the talking. She was describing a frozen lake near Victor's home that they had gone boating on.
"Oh, and it was so beautiful!" she said. "The water was crystal clear and the mountain air was so crisp and cool that it made me want to go swimming in the lake. Of course we didn't, that would have been out of the question, considering the temperature of the water, but oh! It was so wonderful! I wish I could go back again, and this time I…Harry, what is it?"
Harry had paused in his walking several feet behind her and was staring at an old beaten up mailbox that she hadn't noticed before.
"Oh, my God," Harry said incredulously. "It's impossible."
"What is it?" Hermione repeated, slowly walking towards Harry, and she looked down at the mailbox. The sight took her breath away.
Written on the mailbox in dirty but legible bold-faced letters was the name: Potter.
"I…I…" Hermione stammered. She simply could not think of anything to say.
"Oh, my God," Harry said, slowly raising his head. "It's my house."
Hermione lifted her head to sight almost as startling as the mail post. Before them, they saw the remains of what must have once been a glorious house but now only retained a shadow of its former beauty. Little of the house still stood, and that which did was rotten and covered with mold. The rest was in shambles. Planks of wood littered the ground, the paint on them chipped and corroded. The debris was spread out, originating from a point within the house. The grass had long since died and shriveled up, leaving the property a barren wasteland. Within the rubble, pieces of furniture, both whole and broken, lay in various states of decay. Hermione saw such household implements as a shattered coffee mug, a bureau with a broken leg, rusty silverware strewn upon the ground, and a raggedy old doll, a child's plaything. Looking towards the decayed door, Hermione could see "Potter" was also written on the brass doorknocker.
"This is…" Harry stammered. "This is my old house. This is where my parents and I went into hiding during the war. This is where Voldemort…" He choked, tears beginning to form at the corner of his eyes. "This must be where my parents were murdered." His eyes lingered at the small crater in the center of the house. Slowly, he walked forward. He came to the center of the crater and stood silently, his eyes shut, his head hung low. He could feel the hot tears welling out of his eyes. Behind him, he heard Hermione slowly walking towards him. Not wanting her to see him in such a state, he quickly lifted his arm and wiped the tears away. As she got closer to him, he could hear the charred wood crunching underneath her feet. When she was right behind him, she stopped.
"So," she said more to herself than to Harry. "This is where Voldemort met his Waterloo."
Harry's eyes opened slightly as he contemplated her statement. 'No, that's not right,' He thought.
"No," Harry firmly, startling her. "It's not. This wasn't his Waterloo. If it was, Cedric would still be alive."
"It wasn't your fault Harry," she answered.
"Then whose was it?" he asked, his voice beginning to rise in anger, but not at Hermione.
Hermione walked around Harry to look him in the face. She lifted her hands and placed them on his shoulders, her deep brown eyes staring intently into his. When she spoke, her words carried a force uncharacteristic of her normal voice with emphasis on each word.
"It wasn't your fault" she repeated.
"It wasn't my fault, the whose was it?!" Harry bellowed.
"Voldemort's" Hermione said, her words like ice. "Why are you blaming yourself? You didn't know what was waiting for you, you didn't cast the spell. The only person who is responsible is Voldemort."
Hermione's words cut through Harry like a blade. Harry could not recall Hermione ever referring to the Dark Lord by his real name before. He could count on one hand the number of people he knew who did that regularly. Then the actual meaning of her words hit Harry like a bludger. 'She can't know,' he thought. 'She can't understand what it was like. She wasn't there. She didn't see him when he-'
Then it hit him. She was right. It wasn't his fault. Everything was Voldemort's fault. All the pain, all the loss, it was all his fault. He was innocent. Right?
"Hermione," Harry said, his voice very quiet.
"What is it, Harry?" she responded.
"I…" he stuttered. "There…there's something I need to tell you."
"What is it Harry?" she asked, her voice now shaking with anxiety.
"You have to promise me…promise me that you won't tell anyone. Especially Ron."
"Of course, Harry," her brown eyes widening in anticipation. "Anything at all."
"I…" he tried to speak but his mouth was too dry. "I'm a Prefect."
The silence was deafening. Hermione kept looking at Harry, but he had averted his eyes. Finally, she blinked.
"Oh," she said matter-of-factly. "Well, that's great Harry, us both being Prefects. I mean, it's a real honor to be one, and I'm sure it will be great. We'll have special privileges and-"
"No, you don't understand," Harry interrupted. "I can't be a Prefect."
"Well, why not?" she asked, a puzzled look on her face.
"Don't you remember anything from last year?" Harry asked. "Remember what happened with Ron? He went out of his skull when I was chosen as a House Champion. I can't imagine how he'll react if I tell him this. He'll think I'm going out of my way to be better than him."
"That's silly, Harry!" she said, almost laughing at Harry's paranoia. "Ron won't-" She caught herself as she actually put some thought into what she was going to say. "Well…listen Harry. I know that Ron can be a real dunce sometimes, but deep down, you and I both know that he wants the best for you. You know that, right?"
Harry closed his eyes again and was silent again for several moments.
"I hope you're right, Hermione," he said, his eyes still closed. "I hope you're right."
"Well of course I'm right," she said. "I mean, come on. This is me we're talking about."