Thank you for the reviews yesterday!

And the story continues in this chapter. This is so not a pretty chapter. The problem with loosing a firestorm is that you never know who it's going to burn.

Chapter Two: Snape's Firestorm

Snape could feel Harry coming.

Of course, even if he hadn't, the ice that raced along his office walls and the green snake that appeared coiled around his throat, hissing, would have been clues, he thought. But he could feel the actual rolling power of Harry's magic, too, a storm that promised pain and headache and heartache all in one. It grew to a dull pressure behind his temples long before the ice, long before the snake, long before the thundering knock that sounded on his door.

Of course, "long before" in this case means about five minutes, Snape thought. He sat back, one hand petting the snake looped on his neck. He hoped it would not coil too tightly. He still had bruises from the last time that Harry had decided to choke him.

"Enter," he said, when the knock came. His voice was calm, resolute, if heavy. His mind was much the same way. There were advantages to being an Occlumens and being able to slip all his emotions into one of the quicksilver pools that the discipline enabled him to maintain.

Merlin knows I will need it now.

The door opened, and Harry strode into the room. Snape watched him. He might, if he did not know Harry so well, be properly frightened. Harry's magic swirled around him in the form of an aura of darting black snakes, no sooner visible than they vanished again, crawling on the air and on his arms and clothing. His breath hissed and rasped between his teeth as though he had run a race, though it wasn't that far from the hospital wing to the dungeons. He fixed his eyes on Snape so fiercely that their green color seemed actually to have deepened a few shades.

But Snape knew Harry, and he had eyes. He saw how much of Harry's trembling and panting came from the effort of moving like this when he had done little but lie in a hospital bed and sleep for four days. He saw the pallor of his face, the dark circles beneath his eyes that even that much rest had done little to remove, the way his apparent left hand didn't move quite in time with his right. He saw the fear behind the anger in Harry's eyes.

If only that fear were for someone other than his abusers!

"Hello, Harry," said Snape. "If you had wanted to see me, you know, you could have asked, and I would have come to you. I did not want to tax you by having you rise from your bed so early." He knew exactly how he would respond to this. He would not panic, he would not lean back or flinch, and, above all, he would not apologize. Even if Harry wanted him to, it was rather difficult to retreat across his bridges when he'd burned them all.

This is the only way to do things, the only way forward. Snape studied Harry's clamped lips, and decided the boy was trying not to say anything that would result in a scream. Harry claimed to want to change matters. Perhaps I can even make him see that this is a part of that.

Then he strangled the hope and pushed it back under the carcass of his heart. He had given up rights to Harry's love when he did this. He had to remind himself of that. It would never do to forget reality. He might long to have that love, that forgiveness, back, but it would have to be entirely Harry's choice to give them.

"How does it feel," Harry whispered at last, "to know that you have contributed to three murders?"

Snape froze, his heart beating louder than the snake hissed. "The Aurors did not—" he began.

"No, of course not." Harry gave a small laugh that was on the verge of being crazed with exhaustion. He is nearly at the end of his strength, Snape thought, as he watched Harry whirl away from him. "But you slaughtered the people that Lily and Dumbledore and James could have become. They might have been entirely different if I'd just managed to talk to them." Harry was breathing fast, his voice barely steady, as he extended a hand towards the wall and the ice cracked, tumbling in shards to his palm. "I was on the verge of changing my relationship with James. You know that. You know he was getting better. Why did you charge him, too?"

"It had nothing to do with my rivalry with him," said Snape quietly. "I will say that under Veritaserum if you like, Harry."

Harry remained motionless for a moment, before his shoulders stiffened. Then he said, "No. I don't need that. Tell me why."

"Because he was a danger to you, and always must have been." Snape paused for a moment, wondering if he should try to spare the one who had helped him, and then pushing ahead as he remembered a resolve that had shone no less than his own. "Because your brother showed me the letter that James wrote him."

Harry slumped as if someone had punched him in the solar plexus. "No," he said a moment later, his voice hollow.

"But yes," said Snape, and closed his eyes as the snake around his neck took up a discordant song of Harry's pain. "The letter that said he believed you wished to reconcile with him and Lily, that you wished to be one family again, in Lux Aeterna or in Godric's Hollow. He is dangerous, Harry. He did not bother writing you to see if you were serious, or question your decision, even though your brother said you had told him on Midsummer morning that you still did not wish to see your mother. He is not a good father. His concern for that—wife of his overpowered his concern for you."

"But he could have changed," Harry whispered. "He has changed. He had changed. He was caught up in the excitement of the moment. And Lily and Dumbledore—"

"One compelled you, the other believed, or wished to believe, that the compulsion was the result of your own decision." Snape stood and leaned forward, eyes intently fastened on Harry's back, ignoring the snake. He had too much trust in his ward to think that it would simply bite him without warning. "And that is not counting every atrocity they have heaped on you since childhood. They slaughtered thousands of the people you could have become. I will not allow you to damn yourself in trying to save them."

Harry made a desperate noise in his throat that could have been the beginning of either a sob or a curse. He turned around, though, and Snape thought that a good sign. "Sir," he said, making an obvious effort to speak quietly and calmly. "Surely, if I could forgive them, then you should be able to?"

Snape narrowed his eyes. Even with his emotions mostly locked in Occlumency pools, Harry retained an ability that no one else had, to bring his anger and his protectiveness surging to the front of his mind both at once. "And what about Peter Pettigrew, Harry? And what about your brother? They have arranged his life, though they did not try to arrange his mind as thoroughly as they did yours. And what about the way Dumbledore required us to part for a time in third year, and the way he has torn the wards, and his negligence in watching and defending his school from Death Eaters? What does it say that his first action after the Dark Lord's return was to compel you, and not to take the field against him?"

Harry closed his eyes and shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "I don't know. Peter deserves justice, but couldn't you have helped him file the charges and just left my own past out of it?"

"They would want to know why he obeyed Dumbledore's orders," said Snape. "And leaving you exposed to the Dark Lord would still have been seen as a crime, and then they would have looked further into the past, and they would have found the truth." He bit back the insults he wanted to give, the urge to shake Harry until he woke up from whatever desperate dreams still consumed him. That had only a little to do with the snake around his neck, which had grown quieter as Harry's anger retreated into pleading. "This was always going to erupt, Harry. I have received letters from Hawthorn Parkinson and Narcissa Malfoy and Adalrico Bulstrode, all attempting to pry, more or less subtly, information from me concerning your past. I waited to act until the moment when Lily and Dumbledore presented an intolerable danger to you. Then I could wait no longer."

Harry shivered and put his head down. "But if you dropped the charges—"

Snape's hold on his temper slipped at last. "I will not do that," he snarled, slapping his hand down in the middle of his desk. The snake around his throat hissed at him. Snape stifled the urge to unwrap it and throw it across the room. Harry was staring at him with wide eyes, seeming to hear what he said at last, and that was quite enough of a reaction. "I will never do that," said Snape, a little more calmly. "But I will admit that what the Ministry chooses to release, and what will escape on its own, is harder to predict. Therefore, I have made copies of the memories of your past—"

"What memories of my past?"

Snape tensed. He had forgotten that he hadn't told Harry this. "I invented a potion that took memories from Dumbledore's head about your training," he said coolly. "I have been watching them all, and transcribing them. The Ministry has received that potion along with one copy of the recorded memories." He took a deep breath, and flung himself down the tunnel that had opened up before him. "I have also sent Narcissa and Hawthorn Parkinson copies of the memories. I am not sure how far you actually trust the Bulstrodes. But I know that you trust Narcissa, and I know that Hawthorn forgave you for being involved in Dragonsbane's death."

Harry's face was an odd color, like green-tinted wax. His voice was a whisper, so deep with betrayal that Snape had to turn away from him. "Why would you do that?"

"Because," said Snape steadily, "I knew that you would turn away from me in the wake of this revelation—or even before, as you told me that you meant to do. You must have an adult near you who knows what happened to you and has the freedom to approach you."

"What makes you think that I would let them near me?" Harry was glaring at him now. Snape knew the pressure of a gaze like that, even though he wasn't looking at Harry. The snake around his throat took up the hissing again, too, sounding more serious than it had the last time.

"I know you," said Snape. "They are your allies, and you are sensible of the promises that you have made them. Besides, you would not blame them for having knowledge that was given to them. You would blame me for betraying you, and that is what you are doing." He gained, from what place he would never know, the courage to turn around and face Harry again. "I am going to make sure that you are protected, Harry, and in this matter I am aware that I am acting against your will."

"But that's," said Harry, and stopped. Then he returned to the whisper, which Snape found harder to endure than the raging. Probably the exact reason that he's using it. "Please. I came through it all right, didn't I? They abused me, if you insist on using that word, and I still survived. And I'm taking steps to make sure that they don't hurt anyone else. I was confining Dumbledore's compulsion. I was getting ready to work on Lily. James would have been easy. Please, drop the charges."

Snape shook his head. He wondered how he could phrase things so that Harry would know it was no good appealing in this direction. He had already been as blunt as he could, he thought.

No. Not quite as blunt as you could be.

"No, Harry," he said. "Even if I dropped the charges now, the Minister would still investigate them. I swore once that I would unleash a firestorm to protect you, and reach for any help I could." He folded his arms, but not because he was cold. "This dragon is flown, and everything is burning now. It is no good appealing to me to drop the charges. The moment is past when you could have changed things."

Harry stood there shivering for a moment. Then he said, "My brother will have to endure this, too."

"He agreed to," said Snape quietly.

Silence. Then Harry whispered, "I don't understand. Don't you care about my parents and Headmaster Dumbledore at all?"

Snape curled his lip. "In comparison to you? Not at all," he said.

Harry just stared at him for a long moment. Then he said, "But they're human, too."

"And so are you, Harry."

Harry ran his hand through his hair. "It's different with me, that's all."

"How different?" Snape decided that he might as well push on this point. The best he could hope for was Harry both safe and awakened to his potential danger, to what would have been the consequences if his parents and Dumbledore had remained free—and the consequences of their abuse in the past, as well. Harry was skating on the slippery ice of illogic right now. If Snape could shatter that ice…

"I just—it just is," said Harry, in a low, fretful voice.

"How?"

"It just is!" Harry jerked his head up and glared at him. The snake around his throat tightened like a noose. Snape stood still, barely breathing, hardly daring to do anything but watch the face of his charge.

Harry swallowed several times, the rage draining away as something else obviously occurred to him. "I'm going to talk to the Minister," he said abruptly, and then ran out of the room.

Snape watched him go, shaking his head as the green snake vanished. If you believe Scrimgeour to be more sympathetic to your parents than I am, Harry, you are grossly mistaken.

"Harry. You could rest, you know." Mallory's hand on his shoulder was firm, her voice soft and warm. "You don't have to see the Minister right now. I know that he wanted to talk to you sometime soon after your parents and the old fool were arrested, but it could have been any time in the next few days. You don't need to do this now."

"I want to," said Harry, and gave a little shake that would get her hands off him. Regulus, in his head, sighed and whispered at him, but Harry wasn't in the mood to listen. He was remembering, with all the clarity he could summon or force into his mind, all the times that Scrimgeour had acted fairly. He might achieve the right ends by sneaky methods sometimes, but they were the right ends. Harry trusted the Minister's sense of justice. Surely Scrimgeour would see that that justice, the cause of greatest peace and regard for other people's lives, required the release of his parents and Dumbledore. The trial would only cause a great deal of publicity and pity and excitement that would detract from their efforts to fight the war against Voldemort, and it would utterly ruin the chances anyone involved might have to be a new person. That had to matter.

Mallory crouched down in front of him, forcing him to look at her. Harry had insisted on accompanying the Aurors back to the Ministry, and had asked Draco if he would mind staying at Hogwarts. Mallory had acquiesced to all of it, though she had raised her eyebrows when Harry held Lily's hand and murmured that it was going to be all right. She had escorted him to the Head Auror's office without complaint. Harry could not imagine why she would balk now.

Mallory smoothed a hand down his hair. "Harry," she said, "I do understand what happened to you. You should rest. This has been a great shock—I remember that it was a shock to me when the Aurors found out what I had done to my father—and you're swaying on your feet."

Damn. Harry steadied himself by putting his hand on the wall. "Please, Auror Mallory," he said, concentrating to make sure his voice didn't shake. "I am sorry for what happened to you, and I understand that you only want to help me. But I have to see the Minister." The urgency inside him was making his muscles twitch and jump like a caged unicorn's. "Please?"

The Auror studied him, then nodded reluctantly. She rose and rapped on the Minister's door. Scrimgeour's voice answered at once, with no trace of tiredness. "Come!"

Harry let a cautious beam of hope enter his heart as he stepped into the office. Fawkes's message about the vision would have reached Scrimgeour by now. He had other things to think about. Surely, surely he would see that it was best—

And then he stepped in, and saw the way that the Minister's yellow eyes fixed on him, and knew it was not going to be that easy. Fawkes, sitting on an arm of the Minister's chair, lifted and flew towards him, singing. Harry held out his shoulder for the phoenix, but found himself unable to look away from Scrimgeour. There was admiration there, and respect, and profound compassion, and iron determination. Harry was afraid of what the determination meant.

"Fiona, please leave us," said Scrimgeour.

Auror Mallory hesitated. "Sir—"

"You may go to the prisoners' cells only if you think you're able to control yourself, Fiona," Scrimgeour said. "Not otherwise."

Harry felt the movement of air across the back of his neck as Auror Mallory bowed. Then she retreated, and there came the sound of the door shutting.

He's not going to help, Regulus whispered in his head. Save your strength, Harry. Get some rest, and heal. This is what should have happened long since, and you know it. He's not going to help.

Harry shook him away, almost literally, and sat down in the chair in front of the Minister's desk. "Sir," he said, deciding that he might as well be direct, "you've heard of the charges against my parents and Dumbledore by now. I would like to ask that they not come to trial."

"Impossible," said Scrimgeour, without changing expression.

Harry drew in a harsh breath. So Regulus had been right, but it was still like crashing full-force into a wall that he hadn't known was there.

He blamed his shock for letting Scrimgeour get a question in edgewise. "What happened, Potter? You've got blood all down your face."

Harry swallowed. He'd honestly forgotten that, but now that Scrimgeour had drawn his attention to it, the dried blood felt flaky and itchy. "It's my scar, sir," he said quietly, and lifted his fringe, though he didn't know if Scrimgeour would be able to make out the scar under the liquid. "It's a connection, of sorts, to the Dark Lord. And I know that he's returned to full power now."

Scrimgeour dipped his head. "This trial will undoubtedly be hard on you," he observed in a distant voice. "It will be hard on everyone."

"Yes!" Harry gratefully seized the chance at explanation. "That's the reason I would like you to stop it, sir. All it will do is bring up bad feelings and cloud the air with old crimes. Do we need that, on the eve of battle? I don't think so. What my parents did is old news now, and I was rebuilding a relationship with my father until my guardian intervened." He paused, remembering something else he had meant to do. "That reminds me. I wanted to ask for papers to terminate Severus Snape's guardianship over me."

He waited. Scrimgeour eyed him for a moment. Then he said, "It might take me some time to find the paperwork."

Harry blinked. He knew the Minister's tactics. He had just never dreamed that he might use them on him.

"Why?" he whispered, too stunned to add any title of respect.

Scrimgeour's eyes narrowed. "I was an Auror, Mr. Potter," he said, and his voice dipped into the Muggleborn diction he used in moments of great emotion. "I know 'em when I see 'em—criminals like your parents and the Headmaster, trials that have to be endured. Snape saw 'em before I did. And he did the best thing a guardian should for his charge. You won't do half so well with anyone else." He paused. "Do you have someone else in mind?"

"No," said Harry.

Scrimgeour nodded. "And unless Snape actually wants to emancipate you—which is about as likely to happen as my hair turning purple with green polka dots—then you need a guardian with your parents in prison."

"But if you released them—"

Scrimgeour lunged over the desk, the motion so unexpected that it silenced Harry. "They are child abusers," Scrimgeour snarled at him. His eyes made him look like an old lion watching its prey, though Harry knew the Minister wouldn't consider Harry his prey. No, that's reserved for people less able to defend themselves, Harry thought, and felt another surge of angry worry for his parents and Dumbledore. "I've dealt with abuse cases before, Potter. I have no sense of humor about 'em at all. None. Do you understand me? It's an Auror's job to arrest abusers and save the victims."

"I," said Harry, "am not a victim."

Scrimgeour's eyes narrowed further. Moving slowly, carefully, as though his bad leg had started to pain him, he sat down again. His voice was clipped when he spoke. "And I've seen that before, too, Potter. Children denying that what happened was abuse, saying that they deserved it."

"What does deserving have to do with anything?" Harry shook his head. There was a buzzing in his head, a howling like a storm in his ears. "I never said that I deserved it. I said I wasn't a victim. I'm not helpless. I could have defended myself if they ever physically hurt me. I was trying to help them, don't you understand?" His voice had turned into a plea, which horrified him, but he thought it might be one way to get Scrimgeour to comprehend him, since rational argument hadn't worked. "I've managed to persuade you that you should work with magical creatures instead of against them. I've managed to persuade some of my allies that their best chance lies with me and not Voldemort, even some of the ones who served Voldemort. I could have managed to persuade my parents and Dumbledore that their course was wrong, and then we could have handled everything privately."

"That doesn't change the fact that it was abuse, Potter," said Scrimgeour. "It doesn't change the fact that this is just another species of saying you deserved it, exonerating those who committed the crime and condemning yourself."

"I've forgiven them," said Harry. He was beginning to feel frantic, but he repressed it. There had to be some way of turning this aside. Snape had said the dragon was flown, but the dragon was still in the Ministry. There had to be some way of capturing and taming it. "I've not condemned myself for anything but weakness and indecision. Please. Let them go."

Scrimgeour shook his head slowly, but not as if he were refusing, more as if he were expressing silent wonder. "I see that Snape was more right than I ever dreamed," he said. "He said that you'll proceed in your convictions even with proof to the contrary staring you right in the face." His expression softened further. "Potter, I admire you enormously for surviving under these conditions .You have immense strength. But it's time for you to face your past, and that will take even greater strength. Can you do it?" He leaned forward, his eyes intent.

"What matters is whether they have the strength." Harry shifted hard enough to unseat Fawkes, who settled on the back of his chair instead and wrapped a warm wing around his neck. Harry sat on the impulse to break down. Control, control, I have to have control. "Don't you see, Minister? I'm concerned about them, and not about me."

"I see that," said Scrimgeour. "Better than you can imagine. Harry."

Harry swallowed, in order, the urges to lash out and scream out and cry. If he sees, why is he ignoring the truth? It'll be hard, but I can survive anything they throw at me. I can survive being seen, until people get bored and go back to paying attention to something else. But Connor and Lily and James and Dumbledore…why is no one more concerned about them? Connor may think he can survive this, but he doesn't know that like I know I can. And the others! Am I really the only one who cares about them?

He was becoming horribly, horribly afraid that he was the only one who did.

"I'd like to see my parents," he said. "Please." He knew it was no good asking to talk to Dumbledore. The Still-Beetle would make him unable to talk, and the Ministry was not about to remove that confinement yet.

Scrimgeour stared at him.

"I promise I won't hurt them," said Harry, in an agony of impatience. "I'll swear whatever oath you like."

"I am not worried about you hurting them," said Scrimgeour, in a voice full of meaning.

I'm worried about them hurting you. Harry could translate that well enough. It made him want to rage and shout and spit. Merlin, why did no one see that his parents were the victims here? They were the ones unable to defend themselves against accusations that would destroy their lives. Snape's firestorm would burn them alive. Dumbledore at least had his magic and the protection of his past reputation. But James's Auror exploits were old enough not to matter. And Lily…

His mother was without her magic.

And if they find out why she lost it, they'll only use it as more evidence of this being abuse that I couldn't survive. Goddamnit!

He shook his head, and made an effort to calm down and just think. "My father, at least, sir," he said. "The charges against him are different, aren't they? Just neglect, instead of active abuse?"

Scrimgeour paused as though reluctant to acknowledge it, and then said, "Yes, they are. But he was still a party to this."

Harry let out a low whistling breath. "He was on the verge of connecting with me again. He'll think a large part of this is just Snape's grudge against him coming to the forefront. Please, sir. I want to talk to him. I want to explain. Let me?"

Scrimgeour stood. "I see that you will not rest until this request has been granted," he said. "And better the man who sired you than the woman who bore you. I will conduct you to this interview."

Harry nodded. He would have liked to go alone, but he knew, from the expression on Scrimgeour's face, better than to ask.

This is a mistake, Regulus insisted at him.

Harry didn't bother answering. Regulus and he had distinctly different ideas of what was right in this particular case. Regulus had actually whispered, when Harry had been talking with Snape, that Snape had done the right thing.

The cell they kept James in was a plain room, but not entirely bare. It had a bed in one corner, a writing table, a battered bookshelf, and a door that Harry thought led to the loo. Of course, it lacked any form of entertainment and Harry knew his active, studious father would be going crazy here, but compared to some of the cells they might have had at Azkaban, this was the height of luxury.

They entered to find James on his feet; he seemed to have sprung up the moment he heard the locking wards fall and the key turn, and was staring tensely at the door. His face was white.

"Hello, Dad," said Harry, his voice half-strangled with emotion, and started to step forward. Scrimgeour's hand came down on his shoulder, holding him in place, and Fawkes fluttered in front of him, momentarily obscuring the sight of James.

But Harry could hear his words well enough.

"How can you call me that, after what you did?" he snapped. "You said that you were going to come home, that you loved your mother enough to give her a second chance, and then this. How could you do this to people you claim to love?"

Scrimgeour's voice held every nuance of polite loathing as he replied, "I am surprised that you can ask that, sir. Do you know what love is? It looks rather different from your own behavior."

Fawkes dipped back to sit on Harry's shoulder, and showed James advancing a step. Scrimgeour's wand was up and pointing at once, and Fawkes gave a chirp that filled Harry's mind with visions of burning.

"I was under a compulsion from Dumbledore when I wrote that letter, Dad," said Harry, trying to remain as calm as he could. He deserved these castigations from James, Merlin knew he did, but they were pushing him further and further towards the edge of a breakdown that he couldn't afford to have. "I did mean to come home at the time, but only until I broke free of the compulsion. And then I didn't know how to tell you the truth without also revealing it to Dumbledore."

James shook his head, wildly. "Why were we arrested, though? That's what I don't understand."

Scrimgeour growled like a thunderstorm. "Because what you have done is wrong," he said. "Love is unfamiliar to you. What about the concept of justice?"

Harry flinched. Letting him escort me was a mistake. "I didn't choose that," he said, willing his father to believe him. "I would never have chosen to do that. That was entirely Snape's decision."

"And you didn't stop him?"

"I didn't know anything about it until just an hour ago!" Harry controlled himself at the expression on James's face. Calm, calm. This isn't his fault, remember? And he's upset. "I promise, Dad, I'm going to try and free you. Make them see that what you did wasn't that bad, that—"

"That's not enough, Harry." James turned away, burying his face in his hands. "Even if we were released right now, the taint would cling to us and follow us around. No one's going to hire me now. Everyone's going to think your mother some kind of madwoman, and Dumbledore." He gave a harsh laugh. "The war's coming, Harry. Albus wrote me about that. How do you think we can fight it now, with the leader of the Light side in prison for child abuse? This is horrible. It's all horrible. Our lives are utterly destroyed."

Harry bowed his head. I knew this would happen. Damn it, why did I let them tell Snape about the compulsion? I'm sure that that was what pushed him into acting now.

"And our family life, you boys' childhood, will be all over the papers," James was saying, each separate phrase hooked out from the back of his throat. "Did you think about how this would affect your brother, Harry? Why did you tell anyone about what happened at Godric's Hollow? We're all smeared with shit now, and it's all your fault—"

"Silencio."

James's voice cut off. Scrimgeour lowered his wand and turned Harry around. Harry let himself be turned. He barely felt it. He was tingling and going numb with shock.

"What he said was untrue," said Scrimgeour calmly. "Utterly. Come with me, Harry." He lifted his head, and Harry didn't see what expression was on his face as he addressed James, since he couldn't seem to stop himself from staring straight ahead. "You are charged with neglect, Mr. Potter," said Scrimgeour. "Charged. I am going to look over the evidence that Professor Snape laid before me more closely. I find myself, after hearing this little speech, unable to believe that neglect is all it is."

He turned and guided Harry out of the room, his hand never faltering. Harry shivered, and followed.

The truth had hit him along with James's words, or perhaps because of them, like a block of stone falling on his head.

There is no way back. Their names really are smeared now. The dragon is flown. The firestorm is burning.

All I can do is help them ride out the storm as best I can.

And I need a safe place to think about these things and plan out my strategy. Hogwarts won't do right now.

Harry broke into a fit of shivering. Scrimgeour said nothing, but handed him over to an Auror Harry didn't know, with soft instructions to wrap him in a warm blanket, give him chocolate to eat, and return him to Hogwarts.

Harry didn't really remember how he got back to the hospital wing; his shock was too great. He did know that Draco was waiting for him, and a second figure who, on examination, turned out to be Narcissa.

Harry nodded at her, and faced Draco, who checked himself sharply at the sight of his expression.

"I've decided to come to Malfoy Manor for the summer," said Harry. "If I'm still welcome?"

Draco at once hurried forward and clasped him close in his arms, whispering to him. Harry looked at Narcissa, who nodded.

Harry closed his eyes and held on fiercely to Draco. He didn't think he could bear to see the pity he knew must be in Narcissa's eyes. She knew, but he doubted she would press him about things the way Snape would have, and the Manor was quiet and isolated enough for him to think.

And Draco would be there.

I can't keep this firestorm from burning, but perhaps I can tame some of its winds.