I'm updating this early because I won't get the time to do so Friday, what with things I have to do. I promise I'll try to have Chapter 23 up early on Saturday.

Well, here we go.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Christmas With the Potters

Harry wondered idly if it was possible for someone to expire of rage. He supposed he would know in a moment. Snape would either expire of it or finally speak, as he hadn't since Harry had arrived in his office.

Harry lifted his head and calmly met his guardian's gaze. Snape didn't try to use Legilimency on him. He was probably incapable of remembering the incantation right now. Harry waited.

Snape broke.

"You stupid boy," he hissed, lunging up from behind his desk. "What are you thinking? You cannot go back to that befouled place yet, let alone for weeks."

"I've made my decision," said Harry, letting Snape's words roll off him. This was a mindset he hadn't summoned in some time, the one in which everything except Connor ceased to matter. He had forgotten how wonderfully clear and simple everything became when he used it. He still felt rage, and regret, but far stronger was the knowledge that he was doing this for everyone else's own good, even if it was his brother's that came first. "I know that Draco told you about what his father said."

"And it was wrong," Snape said.

Harry tilted his head. "I can't compel other wizards with my magic, then?" It would be good news if it could be true, he mused. It would shatter the nightmare he'd been living in for the past few days, while he avoided Draco and Snape as much as possible and brooded on Lucius's words. Snape had finally managed to corner him and command him to his office. Harry didn't think he had done it in order to wake him up from the nightmare, though.

"You can," said Snape, "but I have not been compelled."

Harry shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir. I don't believe you."

Snape took one long step towards him. Harry went on observing. He wasn't afraid. He didn't feel much of anything, except determination. It was obvious that Snape needed far more time away from him than Harry had thought he did. The claws of his magic were hooked deeply into him.

"I am an Occlumens," said Snape. "Did you think I would not have felt it, Harry?" He was trying to change things back to the way they had been, using his first name, Harry realized. The magic was probably making him do it. Harry's magic obeyed even his unconscious wishes, and Harry really did wish for a waking from the nightmare. It would not happen. He knew that now.

"I think you did feel it first year, sir," said Harry. "And then matters changed. I remember the way that you felt you had to protect me after Tom Riddle's attack."

"Do you remember what Tom Riddle did to your mind?" Snape sounded as if he would start snarling any second. Harry wondered if he should call Remus in. He and Snape could compare ferocious noises.

"Of course I do, sir," said Harry. "That's why everything changed. But my magic was influencing people even under the phoenix web. Draco was changed. You were changed. It just took longer to work on you, since you had the protection of your mental shields." He sighed. "I'm sorry. I would have stopped it if I knew how to control it. I would stop it now if I knew how to control it."

Snape mastered himself with a visible effort. "Harry," he said.

Harry nodded to show he was listening.

"What do you believe would happen if you were suddenly to remove your compulsion from me?" Snape asked. He was leaning forward, his eyes intent on Harry's.

"You would go back to being your normal self, sir," said Harry. "The man you were before I enslaved you."

Snape's voice came out low and cold, the sign of his true anger. "I know what slavery feels like, Harry." He touched his left arm, and the Dark Mark hidden on it. "And you did not enslave me."

"But that's why it's so insidious, sir," said Harry. He was a bit confused. Snape must have read up on the theories of powerful wizards compelling others to follow them from the sheer strength of their magic. He'd been around Voldemort and Dumbledore, both. He would have felt it, from both of them. Why he should refuse to believe that Harry had done it was a mystery. "You didn't notice it. It crept into your mind and your thoughts, and bound you. Even now, it binds you. You think you feel affection for me. You don't, not really." Those words still hurt to say, as they hurt to think, but that was part of the point. Every time Harry thought he had caused himself pain, he remembered that he had caused other people far more.

"I will thank you not to tell me how I feel, Harry," said Snape, and his eyes narrowed further. "You have done a disservice, to me, to yourself, and to Draco. Have you listened to him at all when he tries to speak to you?"

"I did tell him that I was going home for Christmas, sir," Harry said. "He had a screaming fit at me."

Screaming fit was too mild a term for what had happened with Draco, really. Harry had not really wanted to know that Draco thought all those things about his parents and Connor. For a Malfoy, Draco had an extraordinarily foul mouth. Harry thought now that he might have learned those terms from his mother.

"Draco has been to see me," said Snape, and paced one more step forward. Harry was craning his neck back to look up at him. That was all right. He could do this. When he came back after Christmas, Snape would already have noticed the difference, and probably have strengthened his Occlumency shields against the compulsion creeping in again. "He says that he knew about the compulsion beforehand, and that he had already decided to stay friends with you."

"Yes, he told me that, too," said Harry, unmoved.

"And?" Snape probed, his eyes glittering.

Harry shrugged. "The compulsion's feeding on him, too. He thinks he feels all these things that he really doesn't. He thinks he made the decision to stay my friend, but he really had it made for him."

Snape ground his teeth. "And how, Mr. Potter, do you know that, when you have admitted that you do not know how deep your compulsion runs?"

Harry smiled. He knew it was a sad smile. Most of his smiles were, lately. Connor hadn't been able to understand why. He'd even seemed pleased that Harry had a gift so similar to his own. "Don't you see, Professor? I can't take the chance. I have to get away from you for a little while. If your feelings for me change noticeably—and I think they will—then I know that they were the result of my compulsion. But I can't know that until I test it."

"And if they do not change?" Snape asked harshly.

Harry let his breath out. "I don't understand," he whispered. "As you said, you know what slavery feels like. Why would you want to risk being enslaved if you stay near me? My compulsion could be unusually powerful or far-reaching. It may make some decisions for you and not others. It might influence you on some things and not others. The most horrible part of this is that I can't ever be sure, and there isn't one solution that will fix it all. Why would you want to take the chance that you're being compelled, even if you're absolutely sure you aren't?"

Snape moved. Harry had expected the man to stride back behind his desk, or perhaps even raise his wand and unleash a hex, but he knelt down in front of Harry instead. Harry eyed him warily. Snape's hands twitched, but he made no move to touch Harry, instead gazing at him evenly.

"Harry," he said softly. "I choose to risk it. When I change my mind about that, you will be the first to know. I chose to help you rebuild your mind. I chose to become your guardian. I chose to teach you the Potions knowledge that you requested from me. Every choice I have made concerning you since at least the end of last year has been motivated by compassion and admiration and, yes, affection for you. I am absolutely sure of that. I know what slavery feels like. This is not it."

Harry fought to control his own trembling. He tried as hard as he could not to feel anything, not to respond to Snape's declaration. If he did that, then his magic might reach out and compel Snape to recite more of the same words.

Of course, it might do that anyway, responding to wishes that Harry didn't even know he had.

How could he trust himself, ever again?

"Stay here," Snape whispered. It seemed as though the words were choking him. "Do not go to your parents for Christmas. You deserve more than a house full of cheer that does not include you, and parents who will ignore you, or injure you if they ever see you again." He closed his eyes, and held still for a long moment. Harry wondered what was coming. Then Snape forced it out. "Please."

He wouldn't have said that. The magic made him.

I'm compelling him just by standing in the same room with him.

Harry fled.

"Harry."

Harry sighed and tucked an arm around his head. Fawkes, who was sitting with his own head beneath his wing on the foot of the bed, gave a sleepy chirp and huddled down further, fluffing out the feathers on his breast.

The curtains opened, and Draco was there. Harry didn't have to look at him to know he would have his wand out, glowing with Lumos. Draco had been very, very persistent since Lucius's visit. He didn't seem to understand that Harry was trying to give him space to grow his own personality back. He kept insisting that he knew what he wanted, and Harry had no right to take it away from him.

Harry wanted, desperately, fiercely, to believe him, but how could he?

Draco sat down on the bed beside him this time, and said his name again. Harry waited for the hand that would shake his shoulder and force him to face his friend—his compelled friend, his tamed pet, his something. He felt even worse about what he'd done to Draco than Snape. Snape had resisted the compulsion for a whole year, and Harry also thought he would recover faster. Draco had been under Harry's influence for two and a half years. Harry had deprived him of the person he could have become, the other friends he could have had, the interests and hobbies he might have developed out of Harry's shadow. Guilt writhed like snakes in his belly whenever he thought about it.

Snakes. Sylarana. Oh Merlin, did I compel her too?

"Fine," said Draco, his voice exhausted. "Just listen, then. I have something to tell you, Harry."

Harry did not see what it could be. Draco had already told Harry that he'd known about the compulsion in September, that his mother had sent him books on how to resist it, that he had made his own decisions and renewed his friendship with Harry out of his own free will. Harry did not believe it. Draco had still been too close to him when he was making that decision. And perhaps he might even have fought free, but then Harry had reached out, greedily, selfishly, and dragged him back into the charmed circle.

How many mistakes have I made? The sooner I can get some training from Connor, the better. Connor had already shown him how to concentrate and focus inward, pulling in his will until he barely leaned on the world at all. Harry didn't know how well that would work when all of his magic and not just one specific part of it wanted to change people's minds, but he was hopeful. If he could get away from Hogwarts, then he might even stop wanting so much. He already knew where he stood with his parents and Remus and Connor. He shouldn't want to alter their behavior.

"Harry," Draco whispered, and then his hand stroked Harry's hair. It felt good. Harry did not want to let it. He closed his eyes, trying his best to withdraw his will from Draco. But the voice followed him into the darkness, even as Harry dived, spinning and cutting among the portions of his mind he'd rebuilt in May.

"I didn't even know about you until I met you on the Hogwarts Express," said Draco. "And then I felt your magic. I felt it as pain, the way that Malfoys always have. I thought you were the Boy-Who-Lived at first, and that you and Connor were playing a joke on me. It wasn't until you named yourself that I realized I was wrong." He hesitated, as though about to say something else, but then went on.

Harry tried to focus on the bridges of magic he'd created across the gulf of his thoughts. He had controlled his own thoughts last year, when he fought Tom Riddle—almost exactly a year ago, now. He ought to be able to confine his magic to himself again, if he really tried. Not bind it forever, certainly, but direct it more specifically than he had so far. Then he would only do what he wanted to do with it.

"I felt so betrayed when I thought you had compelled me all the time, that our friendship was a lie," Draco whispered.

Harry hunched, and then forced himself to lie still and breathe calmly. If he felt too hurt, then he would probably try to soothe the hurt, and that would involve compelling Draco to do things he hadn't agreed to. Breathe slowly and deeply. That was it.

"And then I realized that it didn't matter," Draco said. "There are things in our friendship that couldn't have been compulsion, Harry. Think about it. You saved my life in our first year. You gave me back the life debt, and I used it to force you to do something you didn't want to do, visiting my family at Christmas. I asked you again and again for the full story of what happened with the Dark Lord at the end of first year, and you never gave it to me. You drove me from your mind last year the moment you felt you didn't need my any longer, and I had no ill effects from that. You let me go with you into the Chamber last year even though you didn't want to, and you could have easily forced me to stay behind. And then this year you've saved my life again and then defended me from my father when you thought I needed it." He paused, as if to draw breath. "There's too much there, Harry. I won't let you dismiss it. And I won't dismiss it, no matter what you think. Even if I find my feelings changing when you leave Hogwarts, I don't care. I'll still be here when you come back, because of that too much. You can't end this friendship because you feel guilty. It's not only yours to end."

Harry wondered dismally why his magic liked yanking affectionate speeches out of people.

Because you want affection, of course. You felt used by your family when the phoenix web lifted. But you could have managed to win affection the normal way, instead of compelling it. That's the way normal wizards would have done it.

"And if you come back from your Christmas broken," Draco whispered, "I swear to Merlin that I'll pick you up and put you back together again."

Harry didn't let himself listen. He would turn around if he did.

Draco eventually went back to his bed, and Harry rolled over again and stared at the closing gap in the curtains where he had been. What scared him most wasn't the declaration itself. He could have expected that Draco would make a declaration like that. The magic was quite capable of getting anything it wanted—or he wanted. That was the more accurate depiction.

What scared him was the calm determination behind Draco's words. Compelled or not, Harry thought it might be a match for his own.

Snape ate his breakfast in silence that morning, and watched Black drink the last dose of empathy potion he would have for a time with much less than the usual good humor he felt at the sight. Black and Lupin were going to be in the same house as Harry for weeks at a time.

Snape knew he could have forced the issue. He could have used his legal authority as guardian to make Harry stay.

And that would have shattered his relationship with Harry far more effectively than Lucius's words had.

Snape put down his fork and sighed. He could do nothing. He hated being helpless, and he especially hated to be helpless in the matter of Harry. The boy had suffered enough, and he was going back into the house with the people who had caused the majority of that suffering.

No, he thought, as he watched Black. There is one thing I can do.

"Black," he said.

The man started, slopping pumpkin juice all over his hand, and turned towards him. He really did look bad, Snape thought clinically. His skin was nearly pasty white now, and the circles beneath his eyes looked like bruises. Had he not done what he had done to Harry, Snape might even have been persuaded to care.

"I know that you are going to Godric's Hollow with Harry," he said. "If you do something to hurt him, be assured I will find out. And then I will hunt you down and kill you."

Black stared at him for a moment. Then he said, "You would go to Azkaban."

"I don't care," said Snape. "I will torture you before I kill you—one hour for every year I expect to spend in Azkaban. It cannot make up for what you have done to Harry, but be assured, it would satisfy me. And the torture would make what your brother suffered at Voldemort's hands look kind."

Black gave a stifled cry at the mention of Regulus. He clenched his hand beneath the table, then said, "I could tell Albus that you threatened me, and he would—"

"He would do nothing," said Snape. "Not when he needs me."

"Potions Masters can be replaced," said Black.

Snape snorted. "You are a fool if you think that is all he needs me for. And a threat is only a threat, Black." He held the other man's eyes and lowered his voice until he was sure that every word was burning past Black's ears. "It need not become real unless you take some action yourself. Remember. Any torture you inflict is cause for your own death by torture."

Black stared at him with wide eyes. Then he stood and bolted out of the room.

Snape leaned back in his chair, and avoided Albus's inquisitive gaze. He brooded on Harry instead, sitting at the end of the Slytherin table and ignoring every attempt from his Housemates to initiate a conversation.

I let him go into danger, in the knowledge that holding him back would be worse.

Is this what all parents feel about their children?

So far, Harry thought, stretched out on the couch in front of the fireplace but posed to shift if one of their parents should come over and try to sit down on him, Christmas with his family had been all right.

His parents ignored him utterly, of course, and Sirius did much the same thing, as though he had gone back to being under Fugitivus Animus. Harry had his suspicions about that, since he had seen Sirius flee the Great Hall soon after Snape spoke to him on their last morning at Hogwarts, but there was nothing he could do about it. He was making a great effort not to even think about Snape, so that his magic wouldn't decide that he needed the Potions Master and try to compel his feelings again.

But Harry had Connor's attention, and that was always glorious. Connor spent many hours working with Harry on training his compulsion, showing him the calming process he'd learned from Sirius, and how to aim his will and push it out towards a single target, rather than simply spread it out and let it dangle in the air. And he spent many hours with Harry when he didn't have to, when their parents would have been happy to speak with him or play with him or pamper him silly. They talked about the history Connor was learning, and Quidditch, and Connor had already promised that Harry would get a few of his Christmas gifts, since Lily and James didn't think to buy him any.

Couldn't think to buy him any, Harry told himself firmly. He always wanted to remember whose fault this was. Forget who was to blame, and he stood a good chance of turning into one of the compellers Connor had warned him solemnly about, the ones who simply used their gifts to order everyone around because they thought it was their right to do that, by virtue of being born with the magic. Compellers had to be careful of their impact on the world, Connor had said earnestly. That was why it had been such a relief to him to find out that his gift was of the Light from Griphook Fishbaggin's book. That meant he would never have to worry about the impact he made.

Harry knew he couldn't be assured of such prophesized status himself, so he was concentrating. And he thought it worked. The first day he was home, a bit of bread had skimmed out of the kitchen and into his hand when he was barely aware he was hungry. Now, on Christmas Eve, he really had to concentrate to summon the simplest of objects, and his magic certainly wasn't attending to his subconscious desires.

That you can tell.

There was always that, of course. Nevertheless, Harry thought he had a right to be cautiously pleased.

"Harry? Can I talk to you?"

Harry blinked and put down his book, which was a review of wizarding history he already knew but wanted to brush up on, this time playing special attention to the role that Lords had played. "Sure, Remus," he said, shifting his legs aside so that the werewolf could sit down on the couch opposite him. Remus was shaking, and Harry studied him carefully. "Do you need more Wolfsbane?"

Remus shook his head tightly. The full moon was still a few days away, Harry remembered then. Silly of me to forget. He smiled apologetically and sat up. "What is it?" he asked, when Remus kept silent.

Remus flattened his hands in front of him. "I think you should know why I refused to let you remove the Obliviate," he said.

Harry felt his insides curl up and freeze. He didn't want to talk about anything associated with Hogwarts here—

But of course he couldn't escape it, not when Connor's every second conversation with their parents was about that. And he had promised to help Remus heal. It was progress, that he was willing to talk about this. Harry made himself nod.

"Tell me," he said gently, and tried not to reflect how much he sounded like their mum when she was coaxing some small envy or petty hurt out of him.

Remus let out a breath. "Do you know close I came to killing Severus, when Sirius played that prank?" he asked.

Harry jerked at the mention of Snape, and then forced his body still when Remus gave him a curious glance. Neither Sirius nor Remus—nor Connor, for that matter—knew about his changed relationship with Snape, or the reason that Harry had come to Godric's Hollow for the holidays instead of staying with him. And Harry didn't want them finding out, either.

Of course, blessed with a werewolf's nose, Remus was sniffing. "Why do you smell so fearful, Harry?" he asked gently.

"We weren't talking about me," said Harry. "We were talking about you."

It was a clumsy maneuver, but he had thought that Remus must really want to talk about this in order to seek him out, and that meant he was vulnerable to distraction. It turned out to be true. Remus's face clouded, and he gave a difficult nod.

"Of course we were," said Remus. "Do you know how close I came?"

Harry shook his head. "No. Dad only ever explained about the prank in its bare outlines, and how he saved Snape's life, and how Snape owes him a life debt for it." He could speak the words calmly, including his guardian's name, he thought. He could. See? He had just done it.

"Very close," Remus whispered. "And I still remember the anger that filled me, that savage, mindless bloodlust to kill and kill. I know it affected Severus too, of course, but it left its mark on the beast in me. At the full moon, in the brief moment when I change and before the Wolfsbane Potion lets me get control back, the beast wakes up and remembers that moment."

"Why?" Harry asked, puzzled. Remus had transformed dozens of times in his life by now. Why would that one transformation matter so much?

Remus smiled grimly. "Because," he said, "Severus got away. The beast never wants anyone to get away."

Harry swallowed. Remus nodded. His face was calm, but his eyes were burning.

"There is no compromise with this thing in me, Harry," he said. "Understand. I'm not a wolf. I'm a werewolf. This is a disease. A curse."

"I knew that," Harry whispered.

"Yes, but you don't understand," said Remus. "Fenrir Greyback bit me as a child. Do you know why he likes to bite children?"

"To punish their families," said Harry, remembering that part of the history of the First War.

"Only partially," said Remus quietly. "Many bitten children die, but if we survive, we adapt differently to the curse, since we took it into our bodies so young. The beast's rage becomes ours. When we get angry, we get angry the way a werewolf would." He took a deep breath and spread one hand in front of him. "I'm not rational when I'm in a rage, Harry. I've been tempted to bite people before."

He met Harry's eyes directly. "And since I know I would be angry when I found out the memories behind the Obliviate, I don't want it removed. I would essentially be a werewolf without the transformation." He leaned forward. "Can you imagine being that angry with your own friends, Harry? I don't want to. I know that there would be no going back once I learned what they did to you. And it would be because of me, not them. They may have done unforgivable things, but I would do unforgivable things, too, in my anger."

Harry shuddered as he remembered the cold, black, silent rage that had welled out of him in the Chamber of Secrets. Remus was wrong. Harry understood all too well. He had his own curse, though as far as he knew, there was no potion that could aid him in controlling it.

"But, at the same time," Remus whispered, "I want to know. I look at Sirius and James and Lily, and it's like I don't know them at all anymore. I wonder what's behind the masks."

Harry said nothing. He didn't know what he could say. Remus was the one who had to make this decision. Harry couldn't make it for him—wouldn't make it for him, not if someone told him he had to make it or die. He had said he would rather die than compel someone else.

Yes, I do mean it, he realized, in a rush of wonder and relief. He hadn't been sure that he did.

"I know Lily was a good woman," Remus whispered. "I know that Sirius and James were good men. But were, were, were. I don't know if they really are the people I thought they were anymore." He smiled grimly. "And I think I'm most terrified of discovering they never were the people I thought they were."

"Remus," Harry asked, because he had to ask, "why did you stand aside and let Peter go to Azkaban, knowing he was innocent? And why did you never tell me the truth?"

"At first?" Remus asked lowly. "Because Albus asked, and I trusted him. And I saw Sirius after the spell finally broke and Regulus died. He looked worse than now. I spent days with him in a room while he screamed, nights with him while he had nightmare after nightmare. He wanted to forget, to let the whole thing die, to let Regulus pass out of memory. And I was willing to give him anything he wanted, to enable myself to forget his suffering."

"What about Peter?" Harry asked. He knew his voice was sharpening towards accusation, but it was okay to let it, he assured himself. He was angry on someone else's behalf, and not his own.

"I never valued him as much as the others," said Remus. Though his voice obviously scraped his throat, he admitted it readily. This was an ugly fact he had made his peace with a long time ago, Harry realized. "James, Sirius, me—we were the close friends. Peter was the sidekick, the tagalong. We all felt that way. I don't think we ever realized it until Albus tested us, but we did."

Harry looked aside. He didn't know what to say, again. No wonder it had been easy for Voldemort to believe that Peter was sick of being in his friends' shadows, he thought. It might even have been partially true.

"I know that I'll have to come to my own decisions, and you have to come to your own," said Remus, placing one hand on Harry's shoulder as he rose. "But I wanted you to know that I'm afraid of my own anger. It's cowardice, Harry, but it's a specific kind of cowardice." For a moment, his smile flashed, knowing, self-deprecating, more like the old Remus.

Then it vanished, and he limped from the room.

Harry spent the rest of that afternoon on the couch, since no one else insisted on coming over and sitting down, and Connor was playing some game with Sirius that made his laughter scatter around the house like butterflies. He thought about what Remus had said about making his own decisions.

He thought of something he could do near the evening.

Thoughts chased themselves around his head as he considered it.

Do you really want to do it? Are you sure?

But no matter what objections he came up with, they always slammed straight into the inflexible barrier of his principles. It didn't matter if he wanted to do it or not. He had said that he would die before he used compulsion. He wanted to work to undo it. He couldn't do it with Remus, because Remus had to choose, and had the ability to choose, now that he knew he was missing memories.

But there were others in the house whom Harry had compelled, directly, and who would not get a chance to choose.

And Harry was tired—tired of being alone except for his twin and Remus, tired of not having a parent except one whom he had magically compelled in one way or another.

He missed his mum.

He stood up, slowly, at last, and when dinner was finished, he went into the kitchen. Lily was alone there, charming the dishes to zip around and clean themselves. Harry could hear laughter from upstairs, where Sirius and Connor had now pulled James into the game, which seemed to be a card game, from the sound of it. Remus had already gone home; the fatigue of the approaching full moon had been affecting him. Besides, he'd joked, he wanted to be ready for Christmas the next morning.

Harry took a deep breath, and listened for a long moment. Laughter, and soft music from the WWN in the other room, and his mother's voice lifting in small breathy snatches of melody as she sang along with it.

He didn't draw his wand, because he thought he should end this the same way he had started it. He focused all his will, and raised his power to the level it had been when he left the Chamber of Secrets, and whispered, "Finite Incantatem."

He felt the snapping and parting of the Fugitivus Animus from Lily's mind. Her thoughts brightened, sharpened, shifted.

Then she froze.

The dishes hovered in place for a moment. Lily at last made a jerky gesture, and they clattered back onto the table and the counter. She stood in silence for another moment more, and her breathing matched Harry's in rapidity. Harry thought her heartbeat probably did, too, though he couldn't hear hers.

Then, slowly, inch by inch, she turned to face him, until a pair of wide green eyes were staring at him, the twins of his own.

"Hi, Mum," said Harry softly.