Thank you for the reviews on the last chapter!

This is an intermission simply because of the variety of viewpoints, rather than the length, since it's as long as a regular chapter.

Intermission: Punishments

Narcissa closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall of the entrance hall in the Manor. She had reached the stage where her throat hurt from lack of sleep, but she did not feel able to rest until Harry returned from wherever he had vanished to.

If it were not for his vanishing, she thought, as she placed one hand over her throat and held it there, then she would have counted the evening an entire success. Three of the Weasleys had come out of the house to aid in the fighting, and aside from a few tense stares, they hadn't shown any reaction when they realized who was rescuing them. Narcissa supposed they might even have made a difference towards driving the seven Death Eaters who had lived away. She couldn't tell for certain. She had no interest in telling for certain.

Most of her attention, from the time that Harry went into battle against the Dark Lord, had been focused on him.

Narcissa closed her eyes and shuddered. The fog that had risen around Harry and Voldemort had been like nothing else she had ever seen—as if the heat and power behind a storm had emerged in a form she could comprehend at a glance. She had expected Harry would die at any moment. It might be in the nature of Voldemort to survive such storms, but she knew too well that Harry was only a boy, and one considerably more fragile than he allowed himself to look or feel. So she had fought with her glance continually darting off, split between the duel and her own son.

Draco had done well, and not even given her a cause for panic, save when he had tumbled on his face just as one of the Death Eaters rushing at Lucius's back lifted her wand. Narcissa could not remember crossing the ground between him and herself, only that she must have, but by the time she arrived at his feet, he was climbing back to them. Narcissa had ducked hastily away before he could accuse her of hovering over him.

He did need to learn to survive on his own, just as Harry did.

Well, no, Harry already knows it. Narcissa blinked and opened her eyes, her fingers running absently over her neck this time. And if the War comes to us when Draco is this age, of course he would insist on fighting rather than being left behind. I will have to learn to accept this.

A pair of hands descended on her shoulders, steering her around and holding her so they could roughly massage the muscles. Narcissa sighed and braced her arms against the wall. Lucius murmured in her ear, "You are thinking about him?"

"Of course I am." Narcissa glanced at her husband. He looked only more like himself, not less, despite the long, thin wound that scored his cheek. "You are, as well."

Lucius inclined his head. "Only thinking that he was foolish."

Narcissa hummed softly and closed her eyes. Adalrico had felt the presence of her cousin Regulus in his head the moment after Harry vanished, informing them all that he had gone to Godric's Hollow. That presented quite a problem, of course, since none of them knew where it was. Draco had suggested letting an owl fly and then following it, but none of the adults were in any condition to fly a broom at first, and Lucius said quietly that if Draco tried to go alone, he would find himself disowned. Then Harry's phoenix appeared, crooning in distress, and Narcissa could see her son sag, giving the idea up. If Fawkes could not find Harry, then none of them would.

They knew where he was. They had only to wait for him to come back.

"Narcissa. Lucius."

Narcissa looked up, blinking. Hawthorn was facing them in human form, her face pale. Narcissa darted a glance out the window. Yes, it was indeed dawn, leaving Hawthorn able to change back. Narcissa let her breath out an inch at a time, and told herself that she had no proof that Harry was hurting more the longer he stayed away.

"How are your wounds?" she asked Hawthorn.

Hawthorn shrugged slightly. "I will live." She moved an imperfectly healed shoulder in circles as Narcissa watched, then shifted her weight from her left leg to her right and grimaced. Greyback had bitten her several times. Narcissa had done what she could with the medical magic she knew, and Elfrida, skilled in healing her own children, had helped as well, but they did not dare take Hawthorn to St. Mungo's. The Healers would recognize werewolf bites. They would confine Hawthorn and demand that she register with the Ministry, and, in truth, their only mistake would be in thinking that Hawthorn had become infected this night and not almost two years ago.

Hawthorn was quite insistent that she remain free, and Narcissa could hardly blame her. Their world was not kind to werewolves, or former Death Eaters.

Or to boys who do not know they are abused.

Narcissa winced as the thought of Harry came back to her, slamming harder into her mind for those minutes of being denied. She almost wanted to stand on her toes and look out the Manor windows, but she knew what she would see: dawn, and no one circling back on a broom. It was ludicrous to think that Harry would return that way, anyway. He hadn't left on a broom, so why should he return on one?

A movement off to the side caught Narcissa's eye. She glanced over to see her son standing there disconsolately, his face lackluster, nearly lifeless.

If there was ever any doubt that Draco loved Harry, I would discard it now. Narcissa looked at Lucius to see if he had noticed, and surprised a slight frown on his face. He smoothed it away at once, but she knew it had been there, and knew why. He thinks Draco weak for expressing his emotions in this way.

Narcissa suppressed an irritated sigh. She hated the arguments between her husband and son, but she could not interfere in this particular one. They were both Malfoy by blood and birth; she was only so by marriage. She could not force Lucius to declare Draco his magical heir, and attempts to persuade him had resulted in her husband walking out of the room.

Abruptly, the air in front of them cracked open, and a house elf tumbled out of it, squeaking. Hawthorn, wounded as she was, had faced it before any of the others could move, Narcissa noted. She felt a moment's pained envy. There were times she thought she could contract the curse for the sake of a werewolf's reflexes and senses.

"Mifi has come to say that Master Harry Potter has returned," said the elf, which was as far as she got before Draco was trying to half-strangle her.

"Where, Mifi?" he demanded. "What room?"

"The Blue Reception Room—"

Draco began to run. Narcissa hastened after him. She could hear Hawthorn gamely following, and Lucius refusing to walk faster than a dignified stroll. Along the way, they passed Adalrico's and Elfrida's door, and Hawthorn rapped smartly, exchanging a few low-voiced words with them to let them know Harry was back.

Narcissa tasted cautious relief mingling with the worry in her mouth. There was no telling what condition Harry might have returned in, after all.

But when they opened the door and saw him standing in front of the hearth, lifting his head from contemplation of the flames and blinking at them, then Narcissa felt justified in permitting relief and worry to give way to anger.

I promised him there would be consequences for risking his life needlessly. I will see that he suffers them.

Lucius felt the difference the moment he came into the Blue Reception Room and saw Harry waiting for them, his head slightly lifted and his green eyes bright with a mixture of emotions in which the uppermost one was puzzlement. He halted. Adalrico, of course, pushed past him and strode over to the boy, staring down at him.

"You ran away without permission from the battle," he said. "Not telling us whether you were wounded, not telling us why you were going or what you wished to do, but simply running away. That is not the action of an effective general, Harry."

"That's because I'm not an effective general yet," said Harry, lifting his head further to study Adalrico. "I've never been trained to act in concert with others, never realized I should take advantage of their strengths as well as my own. I believe I've undergone an experience now that will let me do that. Will you teach me what an effective general is?"

Adalrico stared. So did the women, and Draco, who had made his way to Harry's side and had one arm clamped around his waist in a death grip. Narcissa was caught the least flat-footed, Lucius saw, but even she frowned slightly, as though she could not understand how Harry spending one night away from them would have changed him so fundamentally.

Of all of them, Lucius thought, I am the only one who understands.

He caught Harry's eyes and held them, confirming his impression. Yes. He was the only one who had made a habit of continually feeling out Harry's magic, even when he didn't use it to do something overtly impressive. He knew the moments when it grew sharp-edged, and what that indicated about Harry's emotional state. He knew the moments when it pulled in, and Harry tried to hide. He knew when it was spreading, and would probably cause a new storm in a few moments. Years of observing his Lord in this way had been worth the headaches. Lucius had been able to predict better than most Death Eaters what the Dark Lord would do next.

One thing that had always reassured him about Harry's power—though, if asked, he would have said it was worrisome and not reassuring—was its fragility. It never intruded. It rarely pressed, unless he was so angry that he did not think to ask permission. Most of the time, Harry concentrated on keeping it as unnoticeable as possible, with an effort so deep that Lucius no longer thought it conscious.

Now, his magic spread throughout the room, causing a faint, dull, buzzing ache in Lucius's teeth, and did not apologize for itself. Something had indeed changed. While he had to trust that Harry would not declare himself a Lord, he was more Lord-like than Lucius had ever known him to be.

Draco was now demanding an explanation. Harry was going to give one. First, though, he stared back at Lucius, saying that he knew the reason for that continued scrutiny.

And that he no longer feared him.

Harry looked away, and Lucius blinked and loosed a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His own eyes narrowed as they focused on the side of Harry's face.

He would have to step more carefully from now on. He could no longer be certain of knowing more about emotions than the boy did.

He refused to admit that that made his life a bit more exciting than it had been before. Only children thought excitement an unmixed good.

Draco hadn't said much of anything at first, because joy and rage together were choking him.

He was relieved that Harry had come back safe. Of course he was. He bore no wounds, and his eyes had a look of clear sanity that Draco hadn't seen in them for days, and he wore no glamour over his left wrist.

But the rage…

Surely he was allowed to rage when Harry had dashed off and left them with no warning, only a secondary one come through Adalrico's lips? Of course he was. And when he realized that Regulus had told them against Harry's will, not as a precaution, disappointment had almost drowned his anger. He had held off on pressing Harry because he truly believed that he needed the time and the space to heal. And now it seemed as if they only made him worse, as if there were nothing to be done. Harry would reject a too-close concern, but he would not heal without it.

One new thing he had rapidly discovered about himself was his hatred of being helpless. In that way, Draco thought, he was similar to Harry.

So, now, he held Harry tight with one arm, and he could not feel this was a continuation of all the times that had come before, the times when Harry would venture out, risk his life, and return relatively intact. This time, he felt differently. He put a hand beneath Harry's chin and forcibly turned his face from Harry's staring contest with his father. He supposed Harry might be uncomfortable with Draco touching him so intimately in front of other people, but he did not give a damn.

"Where have you been?" he demanded.

"Godric's Hollow," said Harry quietly. He let Draco turn his face, manipulate it, with his eyes reflecting nothing more than a faint impatience. "No one was there. I went there because I thought I should face the home where my parents abused me."

Draco's fingers opened, and his hand fell limply from Harry's face to his side. He found himself staring again. Yes, Harry might have learned that he needed other people to teach him about war in Godric's Hollow—though Draco could not have imagined how—but that he would face this…that he would come this far…

"You're lying," he whispered.

"I am not," said Harry quietly. He turned just enough away from Draco so that the rest of them could clearly hear what he said. "I am a Legilimens." Draco saw a start and ripple travel through several of the adults. "I tore my own mind apart with that magic, and put it back together again. Memories, emotions, the truths that I use to guide and govern my life. All of it. All of it got torn apart and burned, then reassembled. I hope that I have a better idea of how to act like a normal person now, though I'll never be ordinary." He shrugged, as if he hadn't just made the most astonishing statement Draco had ever heard him make. "That's what I went there to do."

Draco drew a breath. He wanted to shout for joy, but rage was easier, and he should be dealt with first.

"That was insanely dangerous," he said.

"I know," said Harry, turning and looking at him again. "I'm sorry for the regret and pain and worry you suffered over it."

"You aren't sorry you did it," Draco probed.

"No," said Harry. "If I were, then I would have to doubt the conclusions I came to. And I don't. This was the only way."

Draco leaned nearer Harry, and pictured those bright eyes he loved closed or stilled forever, the face streaked with blood and silence, the body crumpled behind wards he could never remove in time to save his life.

He realized he was crying. He could not care. "You could have died."

"I know."

Draco punched him in the arm. "You don't know, Harry, not if you can stand there and respond in that calm tone."

Harry pulled back from him, and for the first time in two weeks, his eyes grew wide and flashed. "Yes, Draco, I know. I know I could have died. I took the risk anyway. From now on, I am going to try and find less risky ways. I know that I tend to sacrifice myself, and I literally can't imagine any other way of doing things most of the time." Harry spread his hands. "You can help me there. But I can't feel just what you want me to feel, Draco. You'll only get in trouble if you insist on judging me by the way you would react in a situation like this."

Draco swallowed. He wasn't sure which he had to struggle with more: the sob or the accusation. He looked closely at Harry.

Harry stared back at him, face bright with impatience and hope and challenge and expectation. Draco felt lost. He did not know the expression.

Then he realized that was because he'd never seen it before.

The world tore open around him, and Draco steadied himself against the sensation of freefall with a few deep breaths. He could handle this. He had been thinking of himself as a changing person, and couldn't he change to meet this, or in response to this?

Well, yes, I can, he realized. I thought I'd be a teacher to Harry, though, knowing myself better than he knew himself, able to show him all these wonders that he'd never realized existed.

I suppose I should have known better than to think he'd sit still that long.

Draco smiled slightly, and that made Harry blink and start back. Draco took Harry's hand.

"I did say that I would punish you if you ran off again," he said. "And that includes even for going to Godric's Hollow and relearning yourself."

Harry inclined his head once. The gesture was deep, formal. Draco supposed that there was more than a trace of the old Harry left, still, and that made him able to smile as he pronounced the punishment.

"Sleeping spells and Body-Binds and the like don't do a thing unless they come in before the fact," he said. "And I've decided that I'm unlikely to know every time you're about to dash off."

"I will try to be better about that—"

Draco went on as if he hadn't heard. "You made a promise to me to be better about that, and you broke it. That means that I need some kind of magical guarantee, Harry."

Harry tilted his head. "You want me to swear an oath?"

"Of course not." Draco leaned towards him and took his chin in hand again, making Harry look at him. "You would word the oath in such a way that you could get out of it. No, Harry, I'm talking about a monitoring spell. It would tell me when you're about to leave the building where it's cast, and prevent you from doing so if I willed it. We can cast one for the Manor, and a new one when we go back to Hogwarts." He stared straight into Harry's eyes. "That's the punishment I want. Can you accept that?"

Harry breathed deeply. Draco knew the impulses passing behind his eyes, because they would have been his, too: the urge to say that this was unfair, to point out that a monitoring spell wouldn't solve everything, that this was a solution Draco shouldn't have had to resort to because he should trust Harry's word.

Against all of those, Draco only repeated, "That's the punishment I want."

Harry dropped his eyes, and, incredibly, only nodded.

Draco drew his wand before Harry could change his mind. He did trust his resolve, but Harry might come up with an even better idea in a few moments, one that just happened to be less restrictive.

"Investigo Harry Potter!" he whispered. He'd looked up the spell during his one productive hour of the night, imagining what he would do to Harry if Harry had the gall to return unwounded.

Harry shivered a bit as the spell tumbled down around him, but didn't complain. Draco rubbed a hand across his shoulder. He was still reeling from the knowledge that this had happened and Harry had allowed it—and also from the bond the monitoring spell was creating in his mind—but he recognized that Harry needed to be reassured about what had happened.

That done, he let Harry turn to face the adults, to learn what his punishment should be from them.

People's scents didn't change that fast.

That disconcerted Hawthorn far more than anything else, though perhaps only because the full moon had shone last night. She kept wrinkling her nose and sniffing, trying to find some trace of the familiar Harry Potter, the one surrounded by pain and fatigue, long after Narcissa had begun, in a level voice, to elaborate why Harry would not be allowed to read any book heavier than one of fey tales for a week, and why he would go to bed the moment the sun set for the rest of the summer, and why he would not, on pain of having her back turned on him, communicate with his parents in any form or fashion before the trial began.

But his scent had changed. Oh, Hawthorn would have known him on the street still, among a dozen other wizards, but the edge of collapse was gone.

That was not possible.

Hawthorn did not know much about Legilimency; that was true. And she knew that sometimes, a witch could escape grief and pain by throwing herself into something new. Pansy's studies in necromancy were proceeding apace because she exhausted her attention in them, to avoid having to think about her father. Hawthorn had allowed herself one night of severe weeping for Dragonsbane, and then she had put her game face back on and continued.

But this...

There must still be buried wounds. There must still be weak points that an enemy could exploit if Harry wasn't careful.

The problem was that Hawthorn couldn't smell them.

Harry turned away from the list of Narcissa's punishments at last, and caught her eye. At once, he frowned. "Why are you standing differently, Mrs. Parkinson?" he asked. "Were you wounded?"

He shifted just then, and his left wrist came free of his sleeve, and Hawthorn saw his missing hand. She knew Narcissa had said something about that at some point, but since Harry had apparently worn a glamour- an effective one, at that- Hawthorn had assumed she'd misunderstood about his actually losing it.

He'd lost his hand, and he'd gone through a mental and emotional transformation that changed his scent, and he still had the keenness of eye necessary to notice how her stance had changed with the wounds she'd received from Greyback.

Those three facts combined and swirled around in Hawthorn's mind until she didn't think she could say anything other than what she said next.

"I am very well, child," she said. "And ready to follow you anywhere."

Harry's mouth curled in a small smile. That was nothing compared to the emotions his eyes flared with, though, or the fact that he shifted his hold on Draco to put out his hand to her.

Hawthorn came and pressed it, staring into his face. And a question she'd asked herself over and over- whether she had really been right to forgive Harry for Dragonsbane's death, when it caused Pansy such pain- was answered at last.

Yes. Yes, I was. He is making good use of the life that Dragonsbane saved for him.

Oh, my love. I hope you can see him now, that the eyes of the dead are not that different. You would be so proud of him.

It was not proper, most of the time, for puellaris witches to be angry. They kept their eyes on the ground and spoke courteous words to their husbands. Outside the home, they were in a world they did not understand, one they had deliberately given up understanding of. Elfrida found it hard enough to focus and function in her day-to-day job with Gringotts. She blushed to imagine confronting men and speaking to them the way she knew her husband had to, all the time.

But when a child was hurt...

Then, it would not have been a proper puellaris witch who could remain calm, and Elfrida was very well-trained. She had been a moment from growing fangs ever since she had heard of the abuse that Harry's parents had put him through.

He was a child, and Elfrida would transform and rend Lily Potter apart if she ever came into sight of her. It did not matter that that would break the family alliance, and cause her to bleed to death. It would happen. Her soul made it impossible for things to fall out otherwise.

Therefore, Elfrida knew, she would not attend the trial. Adalrico had told her that Lily Potter needed to live, and be tried. Most wizards and witches would not see the justice in a lioness ripping her apart, no matter what her crimes had been. Harry especially would not see the justice.

So Elfrida had something else to offer him, and when he turned away from Hawthorn, she offered it.

"Harry," she said. His eyes came at once to her face, and she saw the struggling trust in them reflected with wariness. It was a conflict she was familiar with, having seen it in Millicent's face more than once, as she found herself magical heir to her father and began to grow from a child. "I am not going to punish you, child," she said quietly. "I wish to talk with you. Once a week during the summer, I think, and even that often during the school year if we can manage it."

Harry studied her in silence, and then nodded. His expression said plainly that he didn't understand why she wanted to talk to him.

Elfrida bowed her head. He would not accept the reasons if she stated them. She wanted to remind him that he was still a child, that he had plenty of time to come to adulthood. She wanted to help raise him.

And if there was anything puellaris witches knew something about, it was raising children.

Elfrida sent a cold thought towards Lily Potter, hoping she could hear it. You didn't want him. So he's ours now. And I am going to make sure that he knows it. Separate him gently from his family. Everyone else is much too impatient, rushing through this. You can't rush growth. And he will grow. I will see to it. He is not Millicent or Marian, but then, he is not my daughter. He is my son.

Adalrico studied Harry in silence. He knew things had changed. If nothing else, Harry asking them to train him in battle strategy would have marked it.

He was coming to realize that not enough had changed, though. He had wondered, when he heard about the child abuse charges, why Harry had not contacted them first. Did he not know the Bulstrodes would follow him into the heart of the Dark Lord's stronghold, and that had had been true since he saved Elfrida's and Marian's lives?

Well, no. I don't think that he knows. Did we ever tell him?

They hadn't, Adalrico had to acknowledge ruefully. He had expected Harry to realize, as any child raised in a Dark pureblood home would, what it meant that Harry had enabled a magical heir to survive as well as her mother. Magic was more important than blood. Preserving life would have occasioned a debt, but nothing like what insuring that Elfrida lived as a witch and not a Squib or Muggle did. And Harry had given of his own magic to do it.

Adalrico's mind slammed shut at the thought of such a sacrifice. Only for one of his own children would he have been able to do it, and even then, he would have wanted the promise that they would live and use the magic for purposes he would have approved of, rather than wasting it. Harry had asked for no such promise, merely poured the magic out. Adalrico had actually been the one to stop the pouring, when he could sense his wife's magical presence as strong as it was before she bore Marian. Otherwise, Harry might have given up more and more of his own power.

Their family was what it was because of him.

And they had not told him that.

Well, there is more than one way to remedy that, Adalrico thought, as he arranged to return to the Manor as often as possible during the summer and give Harry private lessons in strategy. I can slip in lessons about what he is, who he is, during my other teaching of him. When he realizes how many among the Dark purebloods regard him- as someone incredibly gifted but willing to share that gift with others...

He will recover his self-confidence. He must. This is a glorious step forward along the path, but it is not enough.

Harry let Draco follow him into his bedroom. It would have been useless to try and keep him out, but this time, Harry actually wanted him there.

He supposed that might change soon, but for today, it had not. He could think of nothing better than curling up and going to sleep in Draco's arms.

As soon as he had finished two letters, of course.

With a soft reaching out of his magic and mind, he called both Fawkes and Hedwig to him. Fawkes scolded him and nipped his ear and scolded him again, visions of Harry dying appearing regularly in his mind. Hedwig softly hooted her disapproval every few moments. Harry ignored them as best he could, and instead scribbled out the notes, while Draco, sprawled on the bed, watched him in silence.

Connor:

I wanted to reassure you that I'm all right. Much better, actually. I thought about some of the things you said, and they helped me come to terms with the abuse. (See, I can even call it that now!) I hope the Weasleys escaped the battle unwounded. For the foreseeable future, I'll be at Malfoy Manor, so feel free to write to me here.

Love,

Your brother, Harry.

He gave that letter to Fawkes, and asked him to wait for a response. Fawkes chirped at him, good humor evidently restored by the chance to act as a messenger, and vanished in a ball of flames.

That left the second blank piece of parchment. Harry stared at it for a while, drumming his fingers on the table, and finally hissed at the hooting Hedwig to be quiet. She blinked grave disapprobation at him.

Draco watched from the bed, and Harry's own conscience watched from within his mind.

Waiting wouldn't make it easier. Harry plunged his quill into the ink and scribbled as fast as he could without making the letter illegible.

Dear Professor:

I was involved in a battle this past night, but I'm safe, and unwounded. Recovering from the effects of a Compression Curse, but that's to be expected. I'm just glad that I took no worse from the Dark Lord.

I tore my mind open with my own Legilimency and created it again, and now I understand why you filed the charges against my parents and Dumbledore. You were trying to protect my future, and me. I still wish you hadn't done it. There were better ways to address the issue. I don't feel up to seeing you yet and telling you that, but you can rail at me by letter, if you want. I invite you to write me back. Just don't assume I'll agree with you for a long time, if I ever do.

He hesitated over the ending words again, but finally wrote his name, and bound the letter to Hedwig's leg. "Snape," he said quietly. She skimmed out the window and vanished.

Then, finally, Harry felt able to lie down in his bed and let Draco surround him with tight, greedy arms. He closed his eyes, and felt Draco press a sleepy kiss to the back of his neck. He shivered. There were ways in which simply accepting this comfort was harder than coming back to Malfoy Manor had been.

But the first step on the road was taken now.

Now he only had to go on taking them- at once a hard task and an enormously simple one. At least he knew that he would never have a harsher judge than himself.

He did consider, briefly, how angry Regulus must be with him, not to have returned to his mind yet, but then he pushed the thought away. He refused to worry about the state of other people's anger when he'd done so much worrying already and Regulus refused to speak. He would explain his actions to Regulus when and if he returned. For the present, he had done all he could.

Quietly, warm and safe and comfortable and loved, he went to sleep.