Harry stood alone in the hallway, staring at the school's giant bookcases. Some were old and peeling, and others were shining and new, as if untouched. The library was Harry's special place in the school. While the other children played games outside, he would spend his whole free time poring over books. A smile tugged at the corners of the boy's lips at happiness of being in the world of reading. It quickly vanished, however, at the memory of the one who had given him this gift. Mr. Carter had not only taught Harry the letters and what they meant, but he had also pleaded to Lady Ludlow for Harry to have a good education. Harry leaned his back against a wall and stared at the floor, his eyes glistening with remorse at the memory of the kind man leaving a book of poetry in the cowshed when Harry had ignored him, blinded by his own anger and selfishness. Little did he know then, that that was the last time his mentor would speak to him. An explosion mortally wounded Mr. Carter. Harry could not forget the look on Dr. Harrison's face when he announced after an amputation that his patient had not made it.
Harry blinked and let a tear trickle down his cheek. He never said goodbye. In fact, he hadn't even seized the last opportunity he had to speak to Mr. Carter. He had shunned it.
A/N-- Wow. Short, I know. I'm still a beginner with fanfiction. I also have not watched Cranford in a long time. If there are any fact corrections or other constructive criticism that you would like to add, help yourself.