Thanks for the reviews on the Intermission!

It's actually a calm chapter. Can you believe it?

Chapter Fifty-Six: Rejoicing

Harry woke with a start. For a moment, he thought he was back in the hospital wing, and that it was the morning after the battle with the Dark, and he flinched, because people had come to see him that morning before he was ready.

Then he remembered that two days had passed. He let his head fall back and breathed deeply. When he closed his eyes, no frightening visions danced on the inside of his eyelids, but only memories of what had really happened.

He'd been excused from classes on Friday, of course; no one was going to force him to go. He'd wandered around the school in strange, fragmentary circles after that morning adventure in the hospital wing—which had resulted in Slytherin losing ninety points because Draco couldn't stop hexing people—and talked to whom he found. There had been a surreal conversation with Acies in a room near the North Tower where she asked him if he believed that things which were lost might come back again. He'd spoken to Vera in a rush of words he could no longer really remember, and didn't want to, since they made him blush in embarrassment. He'd met Remus on the grounds, and they walked in silence, so deep and profound that Harry could have believed he was alone with the snow-covered Forbidden Forest. He'd seen Cho Chang watching him solemnly from a distance; she'd inclined her head and then left him to stand on the shore of the lake, obviously sensing without words that he didn't want to talk just then.

He'd ended up down in the dungeons. He no longer remembered if he'd been trying to find the common room. Perhaps he intended to stand outside the door and listen, since he didn't think he could face large groups of people just then.

But he'd wound up outside Snape's private rooms. Snape had taken one look at him, and opened the door, and let him in. Harry had fallen asleep on the couch and not stirred for hours, which was unusual. He more often woke up at least a few times in a night.

Then, today, Saturday, he'd helped Snape brew potions, speaking and being spoken to only about instructions or what ingredients to substitute when he found out that Snape didn't have any more dried Still-Beetle shells. It had made Harry feel like a pool of deep water slowly closing around a dropped stone. They'd brewed until noon, and then he'd gone to sleep on the couch again.

Judging from the candles around the room and the pit in his stomach, he'd slept until evening, and he was hungry for the first time in two days. He sat up and reached for his glasses, which Snape had taken and put on the table next to the couch.

"Harry?"

He glanced warily to the side, blinking as the world came back into focus. Snape sat in his chair, sipping from a cup of tea and holding open a place in his book. He looked mildly curious, which made the tray in front of him, holding bread thick with butter, pumpkin pasties, some kind of light and fluffy fish, and a cheese sandwich, seem almost a coincidence.

Except not quite, Harry thought, and smiled at him. "I'll be better," he said, and then used a Levitation Charm to move the tray over to him. "I assume you've had dinner already?" He glanced at Snape, who inclined his head.

"Eat your fill."

Harry was more than happy to. The bread and the fish never seemed to end—just when he thought he'd eaten everything, there was one more crumb—but they broke apart so gently that he never felt overwhelmed by the amount. The cheese was of a kind that he couldn't remember having before, so sharp it seemed to score patterns on the roof of his mouth. He ate three of the pumpkin pasties without stopping, aware of Snape's gaze on him, now amused, now evaluative, but demanding nothing.

He was drinking the last of the glass of milk that had come along with the tray when he realized that the pasties were in the shape of Christmas trees. He blinked and glanced up. "It's two days until Christmas," he said.

Snape arched his eyebrows. "One, actually. Today is the twenty-third."

Harry felt the first bubble of worry break through the calm surface of his being. "I don't have gifts for anyone," he said, so quietly that he almost thought Snape wouldn't hear him. But if Snape didn't hear something that passed in his private quarters, Harry had not yet found out what it was.

"I would not worry about that, Harry," he said dryly. "I think saving Britain from the wild Dark is enough of a gift."

Harry shook his head. "That's not what I meant. I don't think myself bound to get gifts for everyone. But I'd like to have them for you, and Draco, and Connor, and the Malfoys." He plucked at the side of the tray, nearly upsetting it.

"Finish your food," said Snape mildly. "Then you can worry about it. But it's not the kind of thing to contemplate on less than a full stomach." He went back to his book.

Harry stared at him for a while. Snape gave no sign that he noticed. Harry warily returned to eating from his tray, though he couldn't help sidelong glances. Why is he being so gentle? Does he really think that I took that many wounds in the clouds?

Well, maybe he had, Harry admitted grudgingly, as he licked pumpkin pasty crumbs from his fingers. The loss of Fawkes was still an ache that he didn't really want to touch; the numbness had worn off now, and it had begun to hurt properly. And he felt as if the Light, cautious though it had tried to be with him, had flayed his mind. He still shrugged his shoulder blades sometimes expecting the weight of wings, and moved his hand in patterns that would have seemed more natural to a gryphon's talon. Even those few moments in another body had molded him to it, rather than the other way around.

And the deaths…

Harry closed his eyes, and shivered, and sat still for a moment. That was the worst part of it. That was the weapon he had to allow never to be wielded against him again. For the sake of sparing lives, he had been willing to give up everything that he was. It had been an untenable choice, between life and freedom. He thought Fawkes had intervened not only to stop the wild Dark, but to prevent Harry from Declaring and the magical creatures from losing their vates. That meant he had to find some way to make sure that that sacrifice was not meaningless.

So what would he do, if it happened again?

Harry swallowed, and stirred pumpkin pasty crumbs around on the tray with a finger. The trouble was, he couldn't say his answer would be any different. If Voldemort lined his allies up in front of him and began killing them one by one, only stopping when he agreed to stay out of the War, wouldn't he have to do it? He owed his allies too much for it to be otherwise.

But it was wrong, too, to say that he would give up fighting for the sake of a few people, when Voldemort would go on to torture and enslave many more people than that. Wasn't it?

For the first time, Harry thought, he was really hanging between the horns of Dumbledore's dilemma, the awful choice he'd made so many times and which Lily had so admired him for. She'd whispered tales of those decisions to Harry as she put him to bed each night. Confront him with a few allies and the whole population of Britain, and Dumbledore would choose the whole population of Britain. He had done it so many times that Voldemort, disgusted, had at last given up using that tactic against him.

The problem was, Harry couldn't see that it was as simple as that. He could foresee having to make a different choice each time, because sometimes, the sacrifice really wouldn't be worth the cost.

So, he thought, as he realized that there were no more pumpkin pasties and there wouldn't be more just because he wanted there to be, the best thing would be to make sure that you can't be forced into making that choice. It's not the decision you fear so much as being forced into making it. You might choose to save the people in front of you not because it's the right thing to do, but because you can't stand seeing them tortured, and others are far away. And that's wrong. Dumbledore could afford not to think about Peter because he was in Azkaban. But he was still doing the wrong thing.

Harry gave a sharp nod of his head. That would be it, then. Rather than try to make one decision now that would guide all his choices in the future, he would do his best to change the circumstances in the future, so that neither Voldemort nor anyone else could force him along a certain path.

"Harry?"

Harry blinked and glanced up. He'd been lost enough in his thoughts that Snape could have addressed him once or twice, and he wouldn't have noticed. His guardian's face reflected no impatience, however. He merely nodded, as if it were good enough that Harry were looking at him now.

"Regulus has decided that he would like to have a small gathering on Christmas Day at Cobley-by-the-Sea," he said. "He and Pettigrew will be there, of course, but otherwise only you, Draco, your brother, the elder Malfoys, and I are invited. Will that be acceptable?"

Harry sighed. "That will be more than acceptable," he replied. "I don't think I could join in the Christmas celebrations of the whole school right now."

"Assuredly not," said Snape. "You may stay here tomorrow, or, if you feel up to braving the Great Hall, you can do that." There was the faintest undertone of hope in his voice, like an aftertaste of sorrow. He hopes that I'll stay here, Harry thought.

And he did want to. For the moment, his anger at Snape, though not gone away, was at low tide. Harry had been at peace enough to fall asleep here, something that would happen nowhere else he could think of. Even the Slytherin common room, though people might shut their mouths with Draco around to hex them, would be full of questioning eyes and questions in minds. Harry needed the sensation that no one cared if he talked, that he could do it or not do it, and either would be acceptable.

"I want to stay here," he said quietly.

Snape nodded. "Do you feel up to seeing Draco tomorrow?"

Harry blinked. "You kept him away today?"

"I did," said Snape. "Try as he might, Mr. Malfoy would interrupt your work. He is a brilliant hand at Potions, but he is at the point in his education when he wants to brew complicated ones only. I knew he would not settle for doing the patient, undemanding work you wanted to do today. Nor would he have left you to sleep for so long without trying to squirm onto the couch and sending you both to the floor."

Harry couldn't make out the emotions in Snape's voice—whether Snape was exasperated with Draco, or amused, or just stating that that was the way it was. He tried to reason them out for a moment, and then realized that he didn't need to, and didn't want to. He deserved a few days to relax and not tease out emotions and implications if he wanted. The thinking he'd done about his choices in the future was as much vates work as he wanted to do today.

"I feel up to seeing him tomorrow," he said. "But he's not to spy on me while I make his Christmas gift."

"There's a potion he won't figure out, and won't make the cauldron explode with," Snape replied in the same tone. "I'll set him to working with that."

"Why won't he figure it out?" Harry had to ask. Draco's talent with Potions was natural, rather than learned with long practice, as his had been. It seemed odd that there were any he wouldn't learn to brew with a few hours of trial and error.

"Because," said Snape, "the instructions in the book are wrong."

Harry snickered, and then paused. He was fairly sure that was the first time he'd laughed since he lost Fawkes. He blinked and lay back on the couch, a bit overwhelmed.

"Feel free to rest," said Snape.

As short a time as a month ago, Harry would have been certain that he should be up by now, that the rest he'd taken so far was more than he needed. But either the change in the Room of Requirement, or the losses he'd suffered since then, made him know, now, that he couldn't go out and be the cheerful savior that people would expect him to be yet.

"All right," he said, and closed his eyes. His breathing evened out. He had the easiest slide into darkness he'd ever experienced, and was vaguely surprised about it. He supposed the loss was still too near and too great to make a temporary escape from the world difficult for him.

When he was sure Harry was asleep, Snape put down his book and leaned forward, staring intently into his ward's face.

It did look better, he had to admit, even since this morning. Harry had brewed with single-minded concentration, as if the Boil Cure Potion they were making for Madam Pomfrey were in reality the elixir boiled from the Philosopher's Stone. His face had been tight and hard. Snape would have expected that look from another Potions Master, but no one else.

Then he'd slept, and twitched and muttered in dreams, and woken up looking like someone who'd been through torture, but more human. Snape was beginning to accept that Harry would come back to them, slowly—not exactly the same person he'd been before, but not as lost as he'd feared.

Slow and steady and gentle was the way to work. Merlin knew Harry was quick to pick up on the slightest hint of an expectation, and think he had to work to fulfill it. Give him nothing, let him do what he wanted, and he would relax.

A ward rang silently in Snape's head. He rose, laying down his book on his chair with a little more noise than he would have dared earlier. Harry slept on. Snape could feel himself trying to smile, but he squashed it as he went to his door. That ward had rung twice in the morning and three times in the afternoon. Harry had never noticed when he went to answer it, but then, Harry deserved the luxury of not noticing things right now.

He opened the door to find Draco staring anxiously up to him. "I want to see Harry," Draco said, hardly unexpected words. He'd started out with a tirade that morning, and Snape had shut the door in his face. Each attempt had gradually stripped the pomposity from him. Snape approved of the simplicity, if not the wish.

"You would wake him up," he said.

"I wouldn't," Draco said. "I only want to talk to him."

"Talking to him would involve waking him up." Snape stared directly into Draco's eyes, brushing his thoughts with a bit of Legilimency, and uncovered visions of chattering to Harry, who didn't have to respond, but whom he wanted to listen. Snape nodded. "Leave him alone for now, Mr. Malfoy. He has said that he will see you tomorrow. That is soon enough."

Draco sulked. Snape wondered where he'd picked that up from; Lucius would never have dreamed of doing it, and Narcissa got her way with other expressions. Of course, Lucius's father had never been as indulgent with him as Lucius and Narcissa were with Draco, and Narcissa had grown up knowing she had a mad sister, so perhaps it wasn't surprising that Draco would act more like a spoiled child.

"I just want to talk to him," Draco said, pulling Snape away from thoughts of the past. He found himself grateful to Draco for it. He rarely had luck with thoughts like that. He tended to brood on the cruelty of the Marauders, the reasons he'd joined the Death Eaters, the reason he'd left, and other things it was not good to think.

"I know you do," he said. "And tomorrow is soon enough."

Draco opened his mouth as if he would throw a tantrum, and Snape said, "If you speak much louder, you will certainly wake him up."

Draco shut his mouth, looking chagrined, and nodded. "Tomorrow, then," he said, between lips pursed so tightly that his voice was just a whisper.

Snape nodded back. "You might tell Potter about the Christmas gathering Regulus is planning," he added, as he moved to shut the door. "I am not yet certain he knows."

With Draco on his way to do something useful, and Harry soundly asleep, Snape felt prepared to take up his book again. He was reading about Potions Masters, for once, and the history of the art. Thoughts about his own past were not productive, but thoughts about the past might be. If nothing else, the book could give him ideas on what kind of defensive potions he might teach Harry to brew.

"So how do we get there?" Connor asked, bouncing up and down and rubbing his hands on his trousers.

Harry shifted the bag he carried, making sure the presents he'd prepared didn't click together. "Regulus sent us a Portkey," he said, and then glanced at Snape to make sure that was right. Snape nodded and held up a bit of what looked like tinsel, glancing around at all three boys to make sure they stood close enough to him to grab it.

"What did you get me for Christmas?" Connor asked, reaching out and grasping the tinsel. Harry felt a bit sorry for him. He hadn't seen Harry until this morning, and he seemed to be under the impression that bright chatter was the best way to get past the inevitable awkwardness of the aftermath of the Dark storm. Harry had tried to tell him it was all right, but Connor hadn't understood. Now, Harry decided to play along.

"I'm not telling you," he said, and chanted a non-verbal spell that gave Connor the sensation of being rapped on the wrist, a spell more often used by mothers to stop children from reaching for biscuits. Connor pulled his hand back from the tinsel and gave him a wounded look.

"Please stop being utterly ridiculous, Mr. Potter, and grab the Portkey," Snape said, with ice in his voice.

"But—"

"Now, Mr. Potter."

Connor did so, sneaking Harry suspicious glances all the while. Draco took hold of the tinsel from the other side and was unexpectedly diplomatic, at least for Christmas morning, Harry thought. Of course, the other Christmases he'd spent with Draco tended to be atypical in some way. "It's all right, Connor. He won't tell me what he got me for Christmas, either."

"It's a secret," said Harry, and then the Portkey grabbed them and whirled them all away, knocking Connor and Draco's conversation into oblivion.

They landed in a large room Harry hadn't seen before; the one other time he'd been in Cobley-by-the-Sea, Regulus had been far more intent on showing him the hippocampi. It was aboveground, and had a window drilled through the stone, looking out over the sea far below. It must be right on the edge of the cliff, Harry thought, since they stood fairly far back from the window, and he could see the wrinkled gray waters of the ocean even from here.

"Welcome! Happy Christmas!"

Regulus's hug bore Harry off his feet. He hugged back, and looked over Regulus's shoulder to see the room decorated with so much tinsel that it entirely erased its cavernous qualities. Artificial Black spiders charmed to glow silver and gold and green and crimson marched up and down the walls between the garlands, now and then mingling with them as if the tinsel were burning. A tree stood in one corner, overflowing with gifts hanging from its branches, as if Regulus had been determined that none of the presents should touch the floor. Harry eyed it with resignation.

"Are you all right?" Regulus asked, setting Harry back on his feet and making him have to shift his grip on the bag of gifts.

"Better," said Harry. "Recovering." Regulus gave him a long glance, as if he really didn't believe him, which made Harry sigh. "I am," he said, catching and holding Regulus's eye. "I promise."

"You don't just recover from something like that," Regulus muttered at him. "But, if you say so." He brightened abruptly and turned to sweep Draco, who was looking smugly at Harry, off his feet. Draco's expression changed at once, but his struggles didn't do him much good as far as winning free went. "And welcome, little cousin!" Regulus exclaimed. "Happy Christmas to you, too!"

Draco looked extremely ruffled when Regulus put him down. Harry linked his left arm with his and pulled him towards the tree. Draco forgot his indignation in exclaiming over its size. "Do you think there are an equal number of gifts for each of us?" he asked, squinting at the upper branches. "I mean, there should be, but you never know if Regulus is going to be that fair. I think he likes you best," he added to Harry, managing to keep a straight face for approximately four seconds.

"Draco. Harry."

Harry turned sharply. He hadn't seen Lucius and Narcissa standing in the corner diagonally opposite from the tree, next to the room's entrance. It was Narcissa who spoke, coming forward to give her hands to her son. She kissed his forehead, then looked at Harry. Harry didn't think he was comfortable enough yet to step forward and let her hug him, though. He simply nodded to her.

Narcissa uttered a little sigh, then turned and faced Connor, who was just escaping his own welcoming embrace by Regulus. "I cannot believe Draco has been Harry's friend for four years, and yet I have never had a formal introduction to you, Connor," she said, stretching out her hand. "I should have arranged one after your parents' trial. It was remiss of me. I am Narcissa Malfoy."

Connor looked abashed as he clasped her hand and kissed the back of it. Harry could see why. Narcissa wore a pale blue gown that floated around her like spiderwebs and made her look more fairy-like than human. Connor mumbled his way through an introduction that seemed to satisfy her. Narcissa smiled at him, and then turned and took Lucius's arm, guiding him over to a divan beside the tree. Harry wasn't surprised to see Lucius watching his brother like a cat.

"Where's Peter?" he asked, since another glance didn't reveal Peter lurking in any of the corners.

"On his way up," said Regulus. "He made a present that was too big to wrap, so he had to leave it downstairs until we were all ready to gather here." He stepped toward the entrance and listened anxiously for a moment, then relaxed. "He's on the way up with it," he announced. "Of course, he's worried about his wandwork, and I don't blame him, so he's carrying it in his arms instead of using a Levitation Charm."

"Shut it, Black," Peter's voice said from below. "I wanted to carry it. I wasn't afraid it would bang into corners if I used a Levitation Charm." He came into view, going backwards and dragging the gift with him so that Harry couldn't see what it was at first. When he finally turned around and shoved it forward, Harry knew it was for him.

It was a carving, made out of some wood—oak, perhaps—that glowed as if it were still part of the tree. Bodies of various magical creatures coiled and writhed as if from the center of a fountain: dragons lying piled on each other, house elves peering warily from corners, great cats prowling with their mouths open in snarls, unicorns balancing Runespoors on the tips of their horns. Harry let his eyes wander over it for a longer period of time than was strictly polite, and still it seemed that there was no end to it. He could look at it for hours and never see all its secrets.

"It's beautiful, Peter," he whispered. "I never knew you carved wood."

"It was an old hobby of mine," said Peter, his voice lacking the pain when he spoke of the past that it'd had in Harry's third year. Harry glanced up to see Peter smiling at him over the dip in a unicorn's shoulder. "I took it up again when I went to the Sanctuary. And since Regulus had plenty of wood lying around, and I have nothing else to do yet…" He shrugged. "I made this. Merry Christmas, Harry."

Harry nodded to him and floated the carving gently over to the side of the chair he already planned on taking. Then his plan was spoiled, because Draco insisted on sitting on a couch together, and Harry had to move the carving again. Peter was already passing out small packages that Harry knew must contain carvings to the others. He heard Connor laughing, and saw him holding up what looked like a lion in the middle of a somersault, chasing its tail. Draco got a complicated sculpture that meshed the old Black and Malfoy crests, with a dragon curled on top of it, fast asleep and scowling. Draco scowled, too, until Harry nudged him, when he roused himself and thanked Peter in a somewhat stiff voice.

Harry already knew that Snape had got everyone books of one kind or another, plucked from his own library; he'd tried not to peek, but working on his own gifts in close quarters with Snape made it hard. He smiled at Snape over his own book on the history of medical magic, and then angled himself to one side. He already knew which Potions book Draco would have.

Draco unwrapped it eagerly, then frowned at the slip of parchment fastened with a Sticking Charm to the front of the book: Look at page 65. Slowly, Draco opened the book, and studied the recipe. A moment later, he was looking up in outrage. Harry knew page 65 contained the proper instructions for the potion Draco had tried and spectacularly failed to brew yesterday.

"Professor Snape," Draco said.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy?" Snape, who had taken the chair Harry had originally intended to sit on, scowled at him.

Draco took a deep breath, then obviously realized that, to scold Snape for what he'd done, he would have to reveal his own mistake to his parents, his cousin, his cousin's friend, and Harry's brother. He sat back with a little mutter instead, which Harry translated as, "Thank you for the book."

Harry took pity on Draco—and distracted himself from his own snickering—by fetching Draco's gift from his bag. He'd chosen a box that Snape had said once contained Still-Beetle shells to wrap it in. Draco gave him a wary look and opened it slowly.

A moment later, he gasped and held up the bracelet inside. "Harry, it's beautiful," he murmured. "What is it?"

"I don't know for certain," Harry admitted. He'd concentrated on what he wanted and spun magic out of himself, an effort that left him exhausted for an hour afterwards. What had resulted was a band of, seemingly, metal that looped back on itself like a unicorn's horn, and was not so much golden as the color of candlelight. "Call it magic."

Draco slipped the bracelet around his wrist, and looked startled when it shook and tightened itself to a perfect fit. "What does it do?" he breathed.

"Who said it did anything?" Harry leaned back, grinning, the first genuine smile he'd been able to give since Fawkes.

"Harry."

Harry relented. "All right. If you touch it with your left hand and speak my name—and you have to be touching it, mind, or it would be working every time you spoke to me—then it'll tell you my current state of health, if I'm wounded or sick or whole." Draco's eyes widened as if they were going to fall out of his head. "If you curve back your right hand and touch it, and wish greatly for it, you'll get pulled to my side, wherever I am. It's like a Portkey focused on me. Powerful wards will be able to keep you out, but not much else."

Draco shook his head in wonder. "I—isn't that a bit intrusive, Harry?"

"Not if I want it," said Harry, and locked his eyes on Draco. "And I want you to be able to do this. I do."

Draco leaned forward, staring into his eyes. Harry flushed, wondering if Draco was about to kiss him here, but Draco only stared as if he were memorizing every inch of Harry's face, and then nodded. He didn't need to say thank you. It was written in every line of his cheeks and jaw.

Harry turned quietly away to present the rest of his gifts: a cauldron enchanted with automatic self-cleaning charms and spells to prevent ingredients from sticking to the sides for Connor; a stirring rod bent into abstract shapes and figure-eight designs for Peter; a box filled with trick sweets for Regulus, which he'd arranged with the Weasley twins by owl to send him; and another stirring rod bent into a case to hold his wand for Lucius. Lucius eyed him for a moment, then bowed. Harry nodded back and looked away. He wasn't in the mood to try to figure out Lucius's games right now, and if his entirely blank face was a good thing or not.

His gifts for Narcissa and Snape were more personal, and Narcissa's was formed of pure magic the way Draco's bracelet had been. Her face softened as she held up a mirror that showed shifting visions of light—moonlight, starlight, sunlight—like the mirror she had given Harry last year that showed different visions of fire. "Thank you, Harry," she said quietly. "I have always delighted in watching changing patterns."

Harry smiled back at her, but looked away when the smile threatened to become too inquisitive, towards Snape.

Snape was unfolding a small scroll of parchment with a puzzled expression. Harry stifled a laugh; Snape had actually seen him working on that yesterday, but assumed it was an essay for Defense Against the Dark Arts, because Harry had told him it was. He really should have noticed my hand shaking when I wrote, Harry thought.

Then those thoughts melted away in nervousness as Snape actually began to read the damn thing. His face sharpened and grew paler. He looked at Harry once, then rose and strode out of the room.

Harry stood and went after him. Draco was the only one close enough to try to stop him, and whether because he had seen Snape's expression, or because he was occupied in exclaiming over his mother's present for him, a coin that was one of the Black treasures, he didn't hold Harry back.

"Sir?" Harry asked as he moved through the door, unwilling to startle Snape, just in case he was too deep in thought to notice him coming.

Snape turned and stared at him. His face was still pale, but Harry thought he understood why the man had left the other room now. He was afraid that he would express too much emotion in front of Regulus or Peter—probably Peter, Harry thought, and the Malfoys. He thought Snape considered Regulus a close enough friend that he wouldn't mind him witnessing this.

Then Snape said, "You—you mean this," and Harry realized that he was shaking.

Perhaps he wouldn't want Regulus to see this, after all. Harry moved forward and stood staring at his guardian. "Yes," he said. "I did."

"You didn't need to," said Snape quietly. "There was no need to force yourself into discomfort just to make me a Christmas gift, Harry."

"I wanted to," Harry repeated. "Just what I told Draco. It might have made me a little uncomfortable, but I wanted to."

Snape looked aside from him.

"I needed reminders that I was alive, after—after Midwinter," said Harry. "And that I had commitments to people who were still here. I think I've done enough thinking about the past and the dead in these last two months."

Snape nodded shortly. The scroll dangled limply from his hand. Harry glanced at it once, then away. He knew what it said as well as Snape probably did. The words had burned into his memory as if they were etched with acid even as he wrote them.

I am trying my best to forgive you. It's hard, and it will take a longer time than this, but I do want to forgive you. I don't want anyone else for a guardian. I understand why you did what you did, so that I could have a future. We'll probably always disagree as to the method, but I know now that something like this was necessary. Merry Christmas, sir. Love, Harry.

Harry hesitantly moved forward and embraced Snape. Snape didn't seem to notice for a moment, and then he hugged Harry back, with an abrupt, desperate fierceness. Even then, Harry noticed, he was careful not to let the scroll crumple between them.

"Merry Christmas, sir," Harry repeated aloud.

Snape said nothing. Harry didn't think he needed to.

By the time they returned to the Slytherin common room—encouragingly empty, as almost all the students had gone home, and those who hadn't were currently attending the Christmas Feast in the Great Hall—Harry was almost in an agony of impatience. Draco had claimed that he'd forgotten his Christmas gift for Harry at Hogwarts. He'd also refused to even hint at what it was. Harry didn't believe for one second that he'd really forgotten it. More likely, he didn't want to give it to Harry in front of other people.

But now Snape had brought them back—with all the gifts that Regulus and everyone else had insisted on giving Harry safely shrunken and placed in his robe pockets—and Connor had pounded up to Gryffindor Tower to share his story with the four younger Weasley siblings, who'd all stayed at Hogwarts for Christmas. They were away from Lucius's gaze, which had frosted over several times during the day, always locked on Draco when it did. They were away from Narcissa's too-knowing smiles, and Regulus's supposedly sly sneaking out of the room, which always resulted in him coming back with one more "forgotten" gift for Harry. They were away from Peter's incredibly quick carving of a scowling Draco, which he'd made when Draco accused him of not being able to carve and actually stealing his gifts from somewhere.

Now Draco could show whatever it was that he'd been afraid to show when they were in public.

Draco had gone to his bed, and stood there fussing with the sheets, his back to Harry. Harry studied him for a moment, then went to his trunk and began putting his shrunken gifts away with more than usual fanfare. That should tell Draco he was willing to wait.

He was trying to figure out the proper place for the dagger Narcissa had given him when Draco tapped his shoulder. Harry turned and looked up at him, to find Draco actually biting his lip. It wasn't something he did often, probably because he had the twin disapproving gazes of his parents fastened on him for far smaller offenses.

"Here," he said awkwardly, and pushed a silver frame at him. Harry dropped the dagger on top of the rest of the items in the trunk and caught the frame with his hand, cradling it before it could fall.

The frame was tastefully plain, except for the Malfoy crest discreetly tucked in one corner. Harry skimmed his fingers along it, not yet looking at the center. The frame held a piece of parchment scribed with words, and he could tell that looking at them would make things close. "Someone planned for Christmas," he said lightly. The frame must have come by owl.

"Some of us didn't have to worry about the fate of the world for the last month," said Draco softly, lightly and yet not lightly at all.

He isn't going to let me joke about this, Harry realized. He swallowed, and sat on his bed, aware of Draco's gaze as he hadn't been aware of any of the looks they got at Cobley-by-the-Sea. He started reading the words written on the piece of parchment inside the frame.

I love you, Harry, because you have the deepest soul I've ever known.

I love you, Harry, because you make me want to be closer to you in every way possible.

I love you, Harry, because of the fact that you survive everything the Light and the Dark and Voldemort and Dumbledore throw at you, and you don't just survive after it, you live.

I love you, Harry, because you were able to overcome prejudices you were raised with to consider me a friend and then as a lover, and yourself a Slytherin when you resisted it at first.

I love you, Harry, because of the fact that you honestly can't see why people wouldn't care about the fates of unicorns and centaurs and Runespoors and Augurey chicks.

I love you, Harry, because of the fact that you argue with your snake at the breakfast table about whether he can have more sausages.

I love you, Harry, because you're fierce.

I love you, Harry, because of the fact that you could so easily leave me behind, and the way that you try not to.

I love you, Harry, because you value healing and forgiveness more than killing and revenge.

I love you, Harry, because of the way you kiss.

I love you, Harry, because I don't think I know the slightest shadow of the splendor we'll be in five or ten years' time.

I love you, Harry.

Harry looked up. He knew that he was crying, but his sight seemed utterly clear. Perhaps he was seeing Draco in between the tears. "How did you know how much I needed to hear this?" he whispered.

Draco blinked. "It's perfectly obvious that you don't really get it, Harry, and I really wanted to do it. I—"

Harry lunged at him—that was the only word he could use to describe it afterward—dropping the frame on the bed and wrapping his arms around him. Draco gave an undignified noise like whumph, but that only lasted until Harry lifted his head and kissed him.

This was deeper than the kiss they'd shared in the hallway after the trial. Harry poured gratitude into it, and gladness, and sorrow, and as much as he could of the love that reading that list had made him feel. He'd always tried to use words and magic to express his feelings, but that didn't mean he couldn't use gestures, too.

Draco regained his balance with a jolt, and kissed him eagerly back. Harry sighed as pleasure struck him, but it wasn't cloudy this time; it was sharp and as brilliant as if he were flying straight into the sun. He pressed himself closer, and moved his hand, which was gripping Draco's back, up until he had hold of Draco's hair, and was tugging at it, not gently.

Draco fell. Luckily, he landed on his bed, and Harry was able to shift his face so that his glasses didn't dig into Draco's cheek and hurt him. Draco blinked a moment, then resumed the kiss. Harry rolled off to the side and stretched out, feeling like a cat must feel when it sunbathed.

Draco drew away at last, and stared at Harry. Harry lifted his head and looked straight back.

"Merlin, you look good," said Draco. "I've messed your hair all up—yes, you can tell—and your mouth looks like you've been chewing a peach without caring where the juice goes." He looked smugly pleased with himself.

"I can see why you didn't want to do this in front of your parents," Harry murmured. It was the only thing he could say. He shifted restlessly, wanting to kiss Draco again.

Draco's expression altered into one of horror. "Harry, I don't want my mother knowing we snog."

"I'm fairly sure she's guessed," Harry pointed out, and wriggled closer. He felt absurdly happy. He wanted to run around the room and shoot balloons out of his wand. He wanted to jump up and down in place until people came back from the Christmas Feast and wondered what all the banging was. He wanted to laugh until he was sick. He wanted to touch Draco.

That last want, at least, he could gratify, and he reached out and put his hand firmly on Draco's chest, feeling his heartbeat. Draco sucked in a breath, and it was Harry's turn to grin smugly.

He kissed Draco one more time, lightly, then lay down beside him and started telling Draco all the reasons he loved him, laughter and tears and survival and brattiness and all. Draco closed his eyes, hummed contentedly in the right places, and suggested new reasons, mostly involving the words "perfect" and "wonderful," whenever Harry paused to think about his wording.

Harry didn't know when he fell asleep. He only knew that, for the first time in four days, he was looking forward to waking up more than he was to spending time unconscious.