Thank you for the reviews on the last chapter!

In which Harry puts his shoulder to the wheel.

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Through the Fire

Harry had a plan for Sunday.

He didn't like all aspects of the plan. In fact, he was so far from liking all aspects of the plan that he had thought about giving a few of them up. Surely it didn't really matter if he delayed some of the confrontations he knew would happen. He still had a few days to speak to his brother, and Snape could wait even longer. They were going to fight a battle together. That was the important thing, wasn't it?

Except that it wasn't the only important thing. Harry opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling of the four-poster, absently stroking Fawkes's feathers. He wouldn't have slept at all last night if not for the phoenix's help. Fawkes chirped twice, once for each caress Harry gave him, before tucking his head further under his wing and lifting one foot to curl against his breast.

Maybe I should be strong enough to force my mind past this, but I'm not. Harry gave an irritated sigh and rose; he didn't think he would get back to sleep right now unless he asked Fawkes for another song, and then he might slumber through breakfast, when he intended to put the first part of the plan into motion. He scooped up Argutus and went to use the showers. The Omen snake lifted his head and flicked his tongue out to catch one of the falling drops of water.

"I thought you only drank cold water," said Harry, though by this point he didn't know why he was surprised. It really hadn't taken Argutus long to recover from the pain curses that Margaret had cast on him, and he had promptly gone back to wandering around and trying new things. If one of those new things was catching warm water on his tongue—well, why not?

"No," Argutus said peaceably, and then wound into Harry's hair, which caused a problem when Harry was trying to use his hand and his magic to clean it. Harry settled the Omen snake on his shoulders again and went back to the shower, his mind circling uneasily around the confrontations he planned to fling himself into.

The first one was probably the least problematic. Harry knew that he would enjoy it.

And that was the problem, really. He didn't want to be someone who would take pleasure in other people's pain. It reminded him too much of both Bellatrix and Voldemort.

But it has to happen, Harry reminded himself, resigned, and then patiently pulled Argutus out of his hair again.

Harry shook his head when Draco tried to pass the Daily Prophet to him so that he could see the new article. He would lose his appetite if he read it, and then he knew what the people who loved him would have to say about that. He picked up a forkful of sausages instead, and began eating, well aware of the eyes on him—from the Ravenclaw table in particular.

She'll approach me soon. I think she would have yesterday, except that I was meeting with my allies all day and she didn't see me. One hundred fifty points from Ravenclaw aren't going to do anything to her obsession.

"I want to try some sausages," Argutus said, coiling down his arm. "They look like crickets."

"I should find someone to heal your eyes," said Harry, even as he put down his fork, broke loose a bit of sausage, and held it out to the Omen snake, who happily stretched his jaws wide and swallowed it. "These do not look like crickets."

"You do not look at things with a snake's eyes." Argutus's tongue flickered, seeming to trail the scent of where the food had been. "It is wrong of you. If you looked at things with a snake's eyes, if you were more like a snake the way you should be, then you would not hurt as much." He craned himself around Harry's neck, leaning forward obnoxiously onto the plate. "More please."

Harry rolled his eyes, and caught a glimpse of Draco watching him with a faint smile. Harry was glad of that. He'd come back to the common room so late on Friday night that they hadn't had much of a chance to speak about Margaret or what she'd done, and then yesterday, of course, had been filled with meetings and sending messages and strategizing for the attack on Woodhouse. Harry knew that Draco wanted to speak to him in private, and extensively. That was another of the confrontations planned for today, and probably the one Harry was least dreading.

"Here comes the one who hurt me."

Harry stiffened, but kept on eating. He would wait for Margaret, who was approaching him from behind, to tap him on the shoulder.

Then he realized that that wouldn't work, because Millicent and Blaise were casually rising to their feet and turning to face Margaret. They leaned against the table on either side of him and stared at the Ravenclaw. Harry knew hexes would fly in a moment if he didn't do something. He didn't want that to happen. Points would be taken from Slytherin, and Margaret would be hurt beyond what she deserved.

And should I even value my House's points as more important than her health?

Maybe he shouldn't, but he did. This was the kind of irritating truth that had driven him to plan the confrontations in the first place. He should be strong enough to ignore and put up with all the minor annoyances, but he wasn't, so he would handle them.

He turned in place, and raised an eyebrow at Margaret, who looked startled. Harry frowned. She should have known I would notice my Housemates' movements, at least.

Draco, he noticed, kept right on eating. Harry was grateful for that. Draco's rage would be more dangerous than Millicent's or Blaise's.

Margaret did him the favor of getting right to the point. "Sitting at the snakes' table and eating your breakfast like a normal person, Potter?" she asked. "Of course, everyone can hear you hissing all over the Great Hall. There isn't anything normal about that."

"I had a question to ask you," said Harry, making sure that he kept his attention fixed on Margaret's face so that he didn't look at Argutus and accidentally speak Parseltongue.

"Yes, Potter?" Margaret looked absurdly pleased. "Finally realized you can't find your way out of the Dark on your own?"

Of all things, it was that which made Draco's fork scrape across his plate. Harry decided to hurry things up before Draco could work his way into the confrontation.

"Did you hear about the special permission that Professor Merryweather's given me?" Harry looked at her in polite concern. He was aware of eyes fastened on him all over the Hall, especially from the head table. He didn't look away, didn't meet them. He had to carry this through now, or Margaret would be cursed within an inch of her life. "That I can use my magic to defend myself, I mean."

"You didn't do anything permanent to me when I hurt your snake," Margaret answered at once. "Why would you do anything now?"

Acies was right. If I'd hexed her badly enough, she might have backed off. But I can't regret not using magic on Friday. She would have died, as angry as I was.

"Because I've decided that you're an annoying little cockroach," Harry answered, "and the only way to kill a cockroach is to step on it multiple times. Acclaro incogitantiam!"

Margaret flinched back as the bright pink cloud of the spell surrounded her, then examined her arms as though she expected to find them changed suddenly into flippers. She leaned forward, peering at Harry. Harry smiled at her and turned around to go back to his breakfast.

"Don't you ignore me, Potter," Margaret whispered viciously. "Do you really think that they'll let you stay much longer in the school, you—"

And then she stopped as the laughter began around her, and she heard her own voice, speaking from the back of her head.

"Oh, Merlin, I think my breasts are about to fall out of my clothes! They aren't, are they? I don't dare reach up and adjust them right now. No, they aren't, it's just that same feeling I get every day. Phew! That's good. Now, if Michael will just look over here and notice me threatening Potter, then I could die happy—"

Margaret's face flushed incredibly red when Harry glanced at her over his shoulder. "What the fuck did you do to me?"

"You ought to be able to figure it out," said Harry lightly, while Margaret's voice went on narrating how embarrassed she felt. "That spell reveals your secret thoughts, the ones you don't want anyone to know. It'll keep doing that for an hour." He tried to squash his own enjoyment, he really did, but he snickered in spite of himself when Margaret's voice started going on about how Michael would never touch her now. "The next time you attack me or anyone else I care about, two hours, and the secrets will be worse. And then three hours, and so on. Soon you might have a voice narrating every aroused or angry or ridiculous or jealous thought you possess to an interested audience at all hours of the day. Unless you stop attacking me and my friends, of course, and keep your wand and your hands and your tongue to yourself." He couldn't help adding, "That shouldn't be hard. I doubt Michael Corner will really want your tongue in his mouth now."

Margaret fled the Great Hall, laughter following her like a pack of barking hounds. Argutus complained on his shoulder about not being able to understand English. Blaise and Millicent sat down again, putting their wands back in their sleeves.

"I underestimated you, Harry," Millicent muttered in his ear. "That was a fitting revenge." Then she broke out snickering again. "Oh, Merlin, her and Michael Corner? What kind of dreamworld is she living in, to consider that a possibility?"

Harry shook his head, and glanced sideways at Draco. "Are you convinced that's enough of a punishment?" he asked.

"Yes." Draco shuddered dramatically and picked up his glass of pumpkin juice. "For everyone. I really didn't want to know about Parsons's sex life, Harry."

"And you never have to, as long as she listens to sense," said Harry. He relaxed, his emotions melting into pleasure—half relief that Draco wouldn't go after Margaret now, and half enjoyment under Draco's approval.

"That's not likely to happen." Draco sent him a wounded look. "The first time we have to hear her meditate on taking a shit or biting her toenails is when I hex you back."

Harry laughed in spite of himself, and then Draco leaned nearer him and lowered his voice.

"On the other hand, I might not. After all, I think some of your thoughts that that spell might show should be reserved just for me, don't you agree?"

Harry could feel himself flush, not only because of the words but because of Millicent's sideways interested stare. He held Draco's eyes and nodded. Draco sat back, a half-smile playing on his lips.

If he does want to talk to me after breakfast, perhaps it won't be so bad, Harry thought hopefully.

Sure enough, Draco matched his stride to Harry's as they passed out of the Great Hall, and turned him gently but inexorably towards one of the moving staircases, indicating he wanted to go upstairs to talk, instead of the Slytherin common room. Harry supposed it couldn't hurt. There would be fewer people to overhear them if they chose an abandoned classroom, and they wouldn't have to kick Blaise out of their bedroom, which always made him sulky.

"Here, I think," said Draco, opening a door and peering into a space Harry thought had probably been a storage room once. Odds and ends filled it—broken chairs, half-severed desks, dead plants that looked like abandoned Herbology projects, torn blankets. Harry wondered who saved things like this, even as Draco steered him inside with one hand on his back. Did Filch really think he could repair them without magic, or had it been one of his predecessors?

"I want to know why you wouldn't let me defend you on Friday."

Well, that's direct.

Harry swallowed and turned around, leaning on a wobbly chair. Draco didn't move away from him, even though a good five feet separated Harry's chair from a convenient desk where he could have sat and likely had it not collapse beneath him. He stood in front of Harry, and used his height advantage unfairly, staring down at him.

Harry sighed and reached up to stroke Argutus. "Because I thought you would kill Parsons," he said quietly.

"I wouldn't have," said Draco.

"Badly wound her, then." Harry wanted to turn away and wander among the chairs, to avoid Draco's eyes, but the chair was just the tail end of a mound of furniture. He had to stay where he was. "You know what the relationship between Slytherin and Ravenclaw is like right now, Draco. Cho and Luna and a few other people are trying, but they'd have to stand by their own House if you managed to hex Parsons hard enough to send her to the hospital wing—"

"Harry." Draco reached out and gripped his left wrist, his way of insuring Harry paid attention. Argutus, who'd been slithering down Harry's shoulder to curl around his left arm, protested sleepily. "That's just an excuse. You know it. If I'd hexed her, you wouldn't have had to. And I think her own House would have understood, even if it was something nasty and disabling." He paused, then added, "And I want to know why you ran away, and then didn't want to talk to me about it when you came back to the common room."

"I ran because of my own anger," Harry admitted. "I could have killed her, Draco. I might have."

"And was there a reason that you put yourself under a spell so that no one else could find you, rather than just getting outside the room so you could calm down?" Draco sounded like Lucius again, Harry thought, not disdainful, but cool, with determination under his tone like steel under a layer of snow. "I would have followed you out, Harry, instead of trying to hex Parsons, if I had any idea where you were. I cared more about comforting you than taking revenge on her."

Harry winced. "I know."

"Then why?" Draco persisted. "Both for yourself and for her—if you really have to care about what happens to her—it would have been the better course."

Harry braced himself. Draco already knew about his dream. And he trusted Draco. He could do this. He just didn't like admitting these things aloud. They sounded stupid.

"Because I wanted to disappear," he said. "To just stop mattering, for a while. To go away." He shrugged. "You know, like the dream."

"You said you knew the dream couldn't be real," Draco pushed. He turned and leaned back against the mound of furniture, still gripping Harry's wrist. "Why did you try to grab it the moment you felt hurt?"

Harry hesitated.

"The truth, Harry. You owe me that much."

"Because I still want it," Harry said. "I want them to stop looking at me, stop seeing, stop caring. That means everyone." He swallowed back the lump in his throat and met Draco's gaze. "Even you, sometimes."

Draco snorted, his eyes dark and a muscle jumping in his cheek. "That's never going to happen, Harry," he said. "You can make me look past you with a spell, but you can't make me stop caring about you—except with compulsion, which I know you would never use."

"I wonder, sometimes," Harry said. "When I get as angry as I got at Parsons on Friday—"

"You had every right to get that angry at her."

Harry frowned. "Draco, there was a moment when I knew that I could have looked at her and made her cease to exist by willing it. That's not a comfortable thing to know."

"Can you teach me that trick?" Draco asked lightly. "I want to use it on Professor Vector sometime."

"Draco—"

"I know," Draco said, and his hands rose and skimmed over Harry's face and hair and scar, in no particular order, touching wherever he could touch. "You worry so much about other people that that would horrify you. But, Harry, the important thing is that you've always had enough self-control not to kill just because you're irritated. You can't blame yourself for possessing the ability. That's what Lord-level magic's like. You might not like it, but it's there, and you should use it for other things—like that spell today—instead of just trying to disclaim it. Or run away from the people who care about you and hide under a spell, for that matter."

Harry nodded, reluctantly. What Draco said made a good deal of sense. Of course, he could be free of having that much magic if he sacrificed some of it, as he had planned to do last year when he contemplated freeing the northern goblins, but then he wouldn't be able to free other magical creatures of their webs.

"Thank you," he said, and brushed a light kiss along Draco's cheek. He had to ask. "Do you think I would ever do that, Draco? Lose control like that and obliterate someone?"

Draco leaned back and stared hard at him. "If you do, Harry," he said, "you'll have an excellent reason."

Harry nodded again. He didn't have that kind of faith in himself, but Draco's declaration was solid enough to lean on. And perhaps he could grow that kind of faith in himself, even think he had the right to be as angry as he'd been on Friday.

Perhaps.

He was glad that that confrontation had gone so well, because now he had to go talk to Snape.

It's just a door. Harry frowned at the door to Snape's private rooms. It's not intimidating. If you're frightened of a door, how in the world are you ever going to deal with Snape?

He shook his head. He would deal with Snape because he had to, but he couldn't help thinking it would have been easier if the door had stood open, if Snape had seen him already, and he had no choice about coming in.

Easier, but since when have you chosen the easy route?

Harry sighed, and knocked.

There was a long pause from the other side of the door, long enough to make Harry wonder if perhaps Snape was elsewhere. But he'd seen him leave the head table that morning just before he and Draco went for their little talk. Snape didn't usually spend Sundays, even bright and sunny Sundays, wandering the grounds of Hogwarts and singing a merry little song.

"Harry."

Harry jumped and turned around. Snape stood behind him, raising one eyebrow at—what? Once, Harry would have known. Now it might have been the expression on his face, or the state of his clothes, or his stare.

"Professor," said Harry. "Sir." Now he would have to stop babbling titles and actually say what he had come to say. "If you're not busy, may I speak with you?"

"I have just returned from speaking with the Headmistress about Slytherin's position in Hogwarts," said Snape. "My duties as Deputy Headmaster are done for the day, Harry. Please come in." He reached out and skimmed his hand just above the door, making several complicated wards hiss and spring back, and whispered the password, deliberately loud enough for Harry to hear that it was "Atropa belladonna." Then he passed inward, and Harry had to follow him.

He'd been less often in Snape's private rooms than in his office, and didn't like them as well. There were racks of Potions ingredients in the office, worktables, cauldrons kept specifically for students with detention to scrub, Transfigured chairs, and dozens of other little objects that Harry could put between himself and a gaze or a question that got too probing. Snape's rooms were more open, the first one having only a couch on one side, near the hearth, and a chair on the other. Snape took the chair, forcing Harry to sit on the couch.

I can't hide. Damn it.

Harry sat stiffly, not trying to force himself to relax. It was hard enough to be here at all. He was no Gryffindor, but he knew he had courage. He just had to summon that courage, and stop dithering. It didn't help that Snape remained absolutely still and quiet, apparently not uncomfortable with the silence.

"Sir," he said at last, fixing his eyes on Snape's hands, "I wanted to apologize. And tell you some things that you may not have understood. And ask for a favor." He took a deep breath and forced his gaze to rise to Snape's face.

The expression there was one it took him a long moment to understand. Harry blinked. Relief? He feels relief?

It hadn't really occurred to him that Snape would be hurting over this as much as he was. Harry uttered a small hiss of exasperation, mostly at himself. I don't understand why he loves me as much as he does, but you'd think that I would stop forgetting it.

"You may begin with any of them, Harry," Snape said. "The apology only if you wish to."

Harry nodded. "I do. I want to say I'm sorry for misunderstanding what you said about Connor. I thought you meant that he just didn't matter next to me, that he somehow deserved to die. But that's not what you meant, is it? You like me better, and you think I'm the one Voldemort will target more, so I have to be ready to fight."

More lines of strain eased on Snape's face, ones carved so deeply that Harry hadn't noticed them until they were gone. "Yes," he said. Then, apparently unable to restrain his sarcasm any longer, he added, "I am somewhat surprised that it took you so long to understand, given what I said to you while you brewed the Wolfsbane. You are not in the habit of ignoring your own intelligence, Harry."

"I was stubborn," Harry conceded. Ouch. This hurts. On the other hand, it's only admitting that you're wrong. That means that you can do it. "And I really did think you meant that at first, with what you said in the hospital wing."

Snape hesitated, then spoke as if picking his way among shards of broken glass. "Part of that does not change even with your new understanding, Harry. I still do not think you should have taken that curse. I think you should have trusted to a shield, or simply borne your brother out of the way."

"And had the curse hit someone else?" Harry demanded.

"Did you know for certain that anyone was behind your brother?" Snape shook his head tightly. "No. You made what you thought was the best decision in a limited amount of time. I respect that. But it wasn't the best decision, Harry. You speak of the curse hitting your brother or someone else on the battlefield as though it must never be allowed to happen. Then why does your life matter less than theirs? And why bring them into battle at all? Why plan something like the attack on Woodhouse, where you know their lives will be in danger?"

Harry squirmed. There were a few possible answers to that. None of them were pretty.

"It is a hypocrisy you have ignored for too long," said Snape, his words gentle and savage both at once. "It must be overcome. You seem to have accepted it, since you have asked for people to fly with you in the next battle. But now, this. And it could happen again. What happens if the next sacrifice saves someone else—Draco, perhaps—and kills you, Harry?"

"Then I'll have fulfilled my purpose."

Snape's face darkened.

"My purpose in making that specific sacrifice, I mean," Harry hastily clarified. "I didn't mean that I thought my only purpose in life is to protect other people."

"And what of those left behind to mourn?" Snape demanded, rising to his feet and pacing back and forth in front of his chair. His robes swirled behind him hard enough to reveal the edge of his Dark Mark. "What of those whose ability to defend themselves you disregard in making this sacrifice? You claim on one hand to trust Draco and the rest of us in battle, but then you would plunge in front of us on the off chance we might be harmed."

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. This was one of those ugly possibilities that he had thought about. A vates had to respect the choices of others, and avoid impinging on their free will if it was at all possible. By showing that he didn't trust other people, some of them experienced fighters, to survive on their own, he wasn't obeying that particular stricture of the path he had to walk.

"Do you understand, now?"

Harry opened his eyes to see Snape kneeling in front of him. His face was a stern mask, but tight with emotions that Harry could not bring himself to disregard. Harry forced himself to nod.

"On one thing, though, I can't change my mind," he whispered. "I'm not only making sacrifices because of my training. I'm not."

Snape stood up and retreated a few steps, until Harry could look at him without craning his neck backwards. "I can provisionally accept that, for now," said Snape, in a tempered voice. "But so much of your healing has been internal, Harry. I wish there were a way to judge how far along the road you are. Has ripping apart your mind truly given you good results? Would not talking to someone about your past other than Shiverwood benefit you more than remaining silent?"

"The first I can let you see, at least," said Harry, relief at such a good segue making him giddy. "I wanted to ask for your help in closing my link to Voldemort with Occlumency." He saw Snape relax still further. "A one-way barrier, so that I could remove it if I ever really need to."

To his relief, Snape nodded. "I would not want you to lose control of such a vital part of yourself," he murmured.

"And I wanted to ask for your help in training Connor." Harry ignored the way Snape's eyes narrowed and the cold, sneering mask that hung on his face in Potions class snapped up. "I know you don't like him. But he'll have to go into battle eventually, and I need someone who's really, really good at Dark Arts to train him. Professor Merryweather might, but she might not. Remus would be too kind on Connor, I think, and anyway, he knows more defensive than offensive magic. I'm too much stronger than he is. Please?"

Snape snarled slightly. "Are you thinking of bringing him along in the attack on Woodhouse?"

"No," said Harry quietly. He caught and held Snape's gaze. "And as soon as we're done here, I'm going to go and tell him that."

Snape nodded. "You are not entirely devoid of sense where he is concerned," he murmured. "That is refreshing."

Harry let the sarcasm pass, and waited.

"If I train him," said Snape, "then he must actually train with me, Harry. Not make the half-hearted effort he does in Potions. I know that he is capable of competency, if not actual genius, but he will never try."

"You could try being a little kinder to him," Harry pointed out.

"Why?" Snape folded his arms. "There is no reason holding him back, nothing but dislike of me. I know Mr. Longbottom's reason for incompetence in the class. Your brother has none of the same reasons. His magic could adapt to the art. He will not make it do so, because he has no patience. Do you really think training with me will inculcate that quality?"

"If both of you try halfway," said Harry stubbornly. "I'll tell him that, too. And you won't have to have an audience in the training like you do in Potions. You can give him all the second chances you like, and still preserve your reputation as the Professor Who Sends Gryffindors Fleeing."

"If Mr. Potter makes the promise to meet me halfway," said Snape, "and does not whine about meeting me at eight'o'clock twice a week, then I will do it. Until the inevitable moment when all hell breaks loose and he refuses to listen to reason." He paused, then added, "Eight'o'clock on Tuesday and Thursday."

"Sir," Harry snapped. Those were the hours the Gryffindor Quidditch team held practice.

Snape stared at him. Harry stared back. Finally, Snape nodded. "Eight'o'clock on Wednesday and Friday, then."

Harry nodded back, and stood. "I'll tell him. Like I said, I'm going to go explain a few things to him right now." It was the last of his confrontations for the day. The thought made him dizzy with relief. He'd got through the one with Snape, the hardest one, without breaking down in tears or yelling. That was wonderful, and it gave him some hope that his confrontation with Connor would go the same way.

"Wait a moment, Harry." Snape put out a restraining hand. "I would still like to see you speak to someone about your past."

Harry scowled at him. He should have known this was coming, but he'd hoped that Snape would forget it in the irritation of being asked to train Connor. "I speak to Madam Shiverwood, when she summons me," he said.

"I can understand why you would not want to talk to me, Harry." Snape's face was perfectly still. "But there are other candidates. Regulus. The Headmistress. One of the Malfoys. Even the werewolf, if you must. There is much to be gained from talking to someone who wishes to help you, who is not in charge of many cases of abused children and will lose your face among them."

That's the point, Harry thought fretfully. That's why I like talking to Madam Shiverwood, because she has more children to care about than just me. It was also the reason why talking to Regulus was entirely out of the question. Regulus would concentrate too much on him, and yank and pull and tug out those things that Harry wanted to keep hidden like tangles of hair from his head.

He supposed that of the people Snape mentioned, the best candidate would be Remus, because he had the Gryffindors to counsel, and would be more likely not to force Harry to yield his secrets because of the lack of time.

But he'd already yielded enough in this confrontation with Snape, Harry thought. He'd admitted that he was wrong, and he'd made some steps towards reconciliation, and he'd agreed to block the scar connection even though it could be a useful weapon in the war. He fixed his eyes on Snape's. "No," he said.

"No, what?"

"No, sir."

"That's not what I meant." Snape was fighting hard to keep his voice from a snarl, but Harry heard it anyway. "Why will you not speak with someone, Harry?"

"Because too much of my life is on display already!" The flare of temper arose before Harry could stop it. He controlled it, hard, and turned towards the door. "I understand why you did what you did," he continued, in a low, tight voice. "That doesn't mean I don't hate it, and want everyone to stop peering at me. Most people know what happened, now. I can't do anything about that. But I can and will keep my feelings on the matter to myself. I have Draco to talk to about other things, like the stupid actions people take as a result of those newspaper stories. I have Connor to talk to if I want to remember something good about the past, and Remus. I have you and my allies to come to about other problems, sir. I don't see what's to be gained by discussing my feelings about—my parents and Dumbledore." Especially because people keep refusing to believe that I could actually forgive them.

"Harry—"

"No. They're mine, almost the only secrets I have left. They're going to stay that way." Harry glared at Snape over his shoulder. "I appreciate what you've done in the abstract, sir. But things like this make it really fucking hard to appreciate them in practice."

He left before the last of the sweet taste of success in his mouth could sour. He managed to calm himself down as he walked. He was sure he was in the right on this one point. He would give way on others. He would try to correct hypocrisies. He would admit that Snape had been right about shutting the scar connection.

But the anger and hatred and forgiveness and love and pity and everything else he felt towards three specific people could not be of interest to anyone else. They were his. The trials would come, and go, and what would happen would happen.

Though not execution. Please, not that.

Harry would go on living through them and after them, unless he died in one of the battles first, and he would go on giving way on other points and correcting hypocrisies and admitting Snape was right. But he could see no reason for him to dig into his soul. Who cared, who had the right to care about those things, except him? It should not even be an interesting subject except to Harry himself.

"But I could—"

"No."

"You're not being fair—"

"No, I'm not."

Connor turned away and punched the wall.

Harry sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. It had been a little much to hope that the confrontation with Connor would go as well as the one with Snape, he supposed. Connor was not Snape. He was impulsive, aggressive, and—well—overconfident. Harry loved his brother dearly, but he knew that Connor was too much a Gryffindor to relish being left out of battle, even though Harry had explained all the reasons as clearly as he knew how. Connor would need more training before he entered battle. He might have been able to go if he would consent to remain behind the lines, since he was brilliant on a broom, but Harry knew Connor, despite giving a promise like that with the best of intentions, would find the thought of interfering irresistible.

How can I blame him for that? I'm the same way. But I've had the training.

"I really, really hate this," Connor told the wall of his bedroom, and then turned around and glared at Harry. Harry was grateful none of his yearmates were there. Of course, the only one who had really seemed tempted to linger and gawk once Harry came up to Gryffindor Tower was Seamus, and Ron and Neville had made a point of dragging him away the moment they saw Harry's face. "I hate that you're so much better than me. I hate the fact that you're going to go out fighting and leave me here, but you'll take Malfoy along."

"All three of them, in fact," Harry agreed lightly. "And it has nothing to do with not wanting to take you along, Connor. I would, if you could keep yourself safe. But you can't, not yet, and you can't add enough to the battle to spare the people it would take to guard you."

He winced as he said that, since it did sound rather heartless. But he'd hardened himself to being heartless when he made this plan. He was not about to lie to Connor about the battle they'd be having on the full moon. He also was not about to take him along.

Connor's face paled a bit, and his eyes sparked. "My compulsion ability—"

"We don't really need anyone compelled," Harry broke in. "We won't want that for the Muggles, if they're there, and we can handle the Death Eaters. Besides, the last I knew, you had to look someone in the eyes to really compel them. It would be hard to do that in the middle of battle."

Connor closed his eyes. "Please, Harry?" he whispered. "I hate asking like this, but I want to fight."

"I know," said Harry, again wanting to squirm in discomfort. But he had made a promise to himself. He intended to carry it through. Last confrontation of the day, he chanted in his head. "But, Connor, I can't. I'm not doing this as your older brother, just making you stay behind because you're younger than I am—"

"By fifteen minutes—"

"See? That would be blatantly ridiculous. I'm doing this as a war leader, and because I know how the people I'm taking to Woodhouse fit into my plans." Connor refused to look at him. It did sound strange, Harry had to admit, and he supposed it sounded stranger to someone who had been used to thinking of himself as the Boy-Who-Lived and the future leader of the Light at one point. "This is a reason to train hard with Snape," he added, trying to sound encouraging. "The sooner you can learn to defend yourself with actual dueling spells, the sooner you can join us."

"I want to go now," Connor whispered. "Someone has to guard your back. And I want to make up for what happened on the beach, Harry."

Should have known that would be in there somewhere. "It was my choice to jump in front of that curse, Connor," Harry said quietly. "Not your fault."

"I was the one who said your name and made it necessary."

"And everything worked out fine," Harry pointed out. "And now I want you to get the training you need so that that won't happen again. You can best make up for it by working hard."

Connor flopped bonelessly back on his bed and lay there for a little while. Then he said, "Eight'o'clock on Wednesday and Friday."

"Right."

"There goes my Friday evening," Connor groused.

Harry smiled. "Thank you, Connor." He stepped up to his brother and hugged him. Connor's arms came up and clenched around his waist with unexpected strength.

"Don't get yourself killed, you prat," he whispered into Harry's ear. "I can't do this alone."

Of all the confrontations today, that was what made him blink back tears. Harry whispered, "Thank you," and then turned and sought the stairs back down to the Gryffindor common room. He could feel his brother's eyes on his back as he departed.

He felt the urge to turn back and tell Connor he could come, after all.

But he had suspected he would feel that, and his preparation was enough to keep his head high and his shoulders stiff. This was hard, but Harry no longer felt compelled to hold back from doing hard things. If he had the courage and he had the will and he had the necessity, he would go through the fire and come out the other side.

It can't be worse than what I've already survived.