Human beings are so made that the ones who do the crushing feel nothing; it is the person crushed who feels what is happening. Unless one has placed oneself on the side of the oppressed, to feel with them, one cannot understand.

Simone Weil

There Was Fire . . .

"Little Snowflake!" Piotr's heart raced as he crashed down the spiral staircase that linked the top and bottom floor of the Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters. He had awoken to loud sounds floating in from the courtyard, but by the time he had gotten to the hallway, the fire alarm was blaring out a harsh and remorseless tune that echoed the panic in his own racing, rattled brain.

There were others awake, students frantically trying to wake others as the school was dyed blazing orange and red by the fire that raged on. To Piotr's dismay, the sprinkler system had kicked on, but to no effect. There was something else causing the fire—something that could not be halted by water, even by the gallons.

As Piotr clambered to the final step, he whirled and saw Jubilee, among a larger group of students trying frenetically to open the double doors at the front of the mansion. The giant Russian leapt forward and pushed Jubilee out of the way.

"Peter!" She cried as he shoved her, and within moments his skin was changing quickly, becoming shiny and nearly diamond hard. With a nod, he signaled for her to step back. The students gave him a wide berth as he approached the door.

He reared back, and with the force of a charging bull, he rammed the doors with all of five-hundred pounds.

The door gave way in a fabulous array of shards and splinters. On the other side of the barrier, a tumult of screams and angry cursing swelled. Ignoring the gaping crowd of students, Piotr turned to Jubilee, grabbing her by the shoulders gently.

"Get as many people out as you can!" He said desperately. "I must find Illyana; she is not in her room!" Without an answer, he rushed off into the quickly spreading blaze as Jubilee ushered students out into the smoke-tainted, night air.

Piotr hurtled down the hallway at break-neck speed. The floor splintered up beneath his heavy steps, but he raced on without heed. He rushed into the kitchen and stood in the doorway, scanning the room.

"Little Snowflake!" He called out. "Illyana!" But, there was no reply to his beckoning.

"Petey!"

The voice made him turn on his heel. In the doorway to the kitchen stood Bobby Drake, the Iceman. He was still clad in his pajamas, while in his arms dangled the limp body of Kitty Pryde, her brown hair tangled amid his fingers.

"You haff found Katya!" Piotr praised, but his heart still pounded. "Was Illyana with her?"

"No." Bobby replied, "I think she might be in the Day Room."

"Wh-why?" Piotr asked, confused.

"You ever played hide and seek with her? Her favorite place is the laundry shoot."

"BOZHE MOI!" Piotr exclaimed, and he rushed past Bobby and down the hall once more.

Meanwhile, outside . . .

Police were lining the lawns of the Institute to control the mob that had gathered there. Jubilees was filing students out of the mansion and onto the green yard while those who were gathered outside called out various things. "Filthy mutants!" and "Freaks" were among the motley deluge of name-calling.

The students were pooling in the midst of the growing riot that was forming, and as police whistles rang out, no one noticed the figure that receded into the shadows of the street and disappeared down an alley.

Piotr's broad figure filled the doorway of the Day Room as he rushed in with burning determination. Without a moment's hesitation, he rushed to the tiny door that was the laundry shoot. He grasped the small, metallic handle and flung the door open. His heart leapt.

"LITTLE SNOWFLAKE!" He called as he scooped up the shaking, coughing figure in the shoot. The blonde girl quivered at his touch and looked up into the eyes of her armored knight.

"Big brother . . ." she said, trailing off. Her head fell limp.

"Illyana!" He cried, holding her close to his chest. Her hand went out to clasp to his torn and tattered shirt, feebly. Suddenly, he was hurtling away down the hall before a second thought glanced his mind.

Outside, as the cops tried to suppress the mob, people that were gathered near the doorway caught site of a huge, metal giant and fled without hesitation. Piotr did not stop running until he reached the ambulance that sat parked on the street corner among the flashing lights of the police cars.

The paramedic within was shocked as Piotr passed Illyana into his arms and in a frantic voice pleaded, "Help . . . please . . ."

"O-okay . . ." the paramedic said, taking Illyana with care, and he placed her on the stretcher. Soon he was giving her oxygen, CPR, and soon, she was gasping and coughing.

"Piotr!" She cried out, writhing on the stretcher. The paramedic patted her on the head gently, coaxing her. But she still cried out for her big brother. Finally, giving in, the medic picked her up, gently, and passed her to the armored giant.

Piotr gazed down at her intently. Illyana's cheeks were smudged with soot and her hair was dirty and smelled of smoke. But he did not care—his Little Snowflake was gazing up at him with those wide blue eyes. She opened her mouth as though to speak, but shut it again.

"My . . . Little Snowflake," he uttered. Suddenly, his skin began to change, becoming fleshy and warm once more. Tears streaked small rivers down his dirty face, and he leaned down to kiss her on the forehead.

"There was fire . . ." she whispered, before drifting off to sleep.

The Next Day . . .

Extensive damage had been dealt to the mansion, but with the help of the fire department, and Iceman, the fire had been put out before the place was deemed uninhabitable. Most of the subbasement had survived, and only the East Wing had been terribly damaged. So, lessons went on as they usually did, but some classes were conducted on lawns and in the Main Hall.

Professor Xavier wheeled into Piotr's room in the late afternoon, his usual placid gaze in place, in spite of the previous night's transpirings. In silence he sat for several moments to watch his student paint, before Piotr finally turned in his chair.

"Yes, Professor?"

"Peter . . . I wanted to talk to you about last night . . ."

Piotr put his paint-brush down and sighed. He then turned and fixed blue eyes upon his superior's own dark, probing ones.

"What do you want to talk about?"

"Well, did you see anything before the fire?"

"The mob," Piotr explained. "They were rallying outside, but by the time I got up, the fire had started."

Professor Xavier smiled and bowed politely, "Thank you Peter." He began wheeling out.

"Professor . . ." Peter began. Xavier stopped and turned round to look at him.

"Yes?"

"Will they ever stop hating us?"

Xavier seemed to consider for a long while before answering. He closed his eyes and mused:

"Hate is a thing that is suppressed, not forgotten, Peter . . ." and without a backward glance, he left Piotr to his painting.