The Muggle hospital was white and clean and horrible. Severus sat, cradling his son to his chest in an Emergency waiting room, wanting desperately to Imperious someone just to get their attention. All around them were others as desperate as he, some with wounds caused by Muggle weapons, some suffering from falls, or on-the-job injuries, and one little boy, no older than Harry, was struggling to breathe through an asthma attack. His mother was gently solicitous of her son, but looked resigned to a long wait.

Severus had none of the paperwork necessary to actually see someone here, but a light Compulsion thrown at the receptionist kept him on the proper list. It had been over two hours already since they arrived, and Severus had done everything he could to make Harry comfortable, feeding him ice chips and mopping his brow with a cool flannel, immobilizing the injured hand, and speaking to him in soft, low tones, promising it would all be better soon.

Finally, they were called in to a curtained off area much like Madam Pomfrey's stations in the infirmary, and a nurse had him lay Harry on an adjustable bed before she took his temperature and pulse and blood pressure. Severus could have told her that all three were high, but didn't bother, as he wasn't about to explain how he knew.

When she unwound the bandage, which the child had somehow managed to get dog hair and dirt all over, and inspected the raw looking wound, she frowned. "How'd this happen, then?"

"He has night terrors," Severus said, figuring it would not help his cause to lie, not now. "And he screams, but last night he bit himself instead."

The woman looked dubious, inspecting the taping up he'd done with butterfly stitches from the Muggle First Aid box he always kept for emergencies like this. Her continued frown didn't give him much confidence.

"The doctor will be in shortly," she said at last, and left him alone again with his son.

He brushed hair off the boy's forehead, hair very much like his, and quickly conjured a new cloth to wipe away the sweat while no one was watching. Harry whimpered a little, and he leaned over, whispering, "It will be all right, Harry. Everything will be all right."

"Daddy?" Harry whispered back, his deep green eyes hardly open a crack. "Please don't go. Don't leave me."

"Never." He kissed the boy's forehead. "I never will."

---

After another two hours, they were ready to leave. Severus had received specific instructions on how to change the dressing on Harry's hand, how much of the antibiotics he was supposed to give the child, and how often, when they should return for a follow up appointment, and when to schedule the first of several surgeries. Harry had bitten clear through the tendons around his thumb, and it would require physical therapy, as well, to repair the damage.

Harry had also been referred to a child psychologist.

Aside from the medicine and dressings, however, Severus had no intention of following the rest of the "plan". There were fully qualified Wizard surgeons who could perform any operations, and between Madam Pomfrey and Madam Hooch, any physical therapy could be dealt with at Hogwarts. The psychologist was completely out of the question, although one might be worth looking into, at St. Mungo's, say.

Thus, after thanking the doctor and the nurse who had first ushered them behind the curtain, Severus Obliviated them and took Harry home.

Nelli was waiting for them, with lunch all set up and kept fresh with containment charms, and the little house elf looked positively miserable. Harry was still sleeping, as he had been, mostly, since they left Hogwarts, and Nelli's voice was quiet as she said, "Is Master Harry being all right, sir?"

"He will be," Severus said quietly. "But he will need to take it easy for a few days. No unsupervised trips outside. No running, and he'll have to be very careful of his hand." The hand in question was swaddled in several layers of Muggle bandages and a splint, so as to prevent as much movement as possible. Still, there was no sense in being careless.

Taking the child into his bedroom, Severus allowed himself to really think, for the first time, about what he had discussed with the Headmaster this morning. Harry was his and Lily's son. His, and hers, borne of that one night of compassion and empathy and -- dared he think it? -- love. And then, she had immediately run to James. The "prat." Severus had seen little of them over the next year, and only once or twice after Harry was born, and he tried to remember if Lily had been happy in her marriage, if there had been any signs at all that she wished for something -- someone -- different.

Severus removed Harry's shoes and pulled a light quilt over him on the bed. In his sleep, the boy curled into his habitual ball, cradling his injured hand close to his chest. Severus sat with him, carding fingers through the boy's fine, soft hair and watching his face, even now etched with lines of tension that no seven year old should ever have. Especially not his son.

"Was it worth it, Lily?" he whispered in the quiet. "All this pain. Was this what you wanted?" He neither expected nor received an answer. But when Harry murmured a little in his sleep, Severus began a story, to quieten him. This one began with a little boy with few friends, and the green eyed girl who captured his heart.

---

Harry woke to the soft sound of his father's voice, and he relaxed for a little while, just listening to the sound and not really hearing the words. But then he reached out with his good hand, trying to touch his father, and the voice stopped. A hand captured his and squeezed gently.

"Harry? Are you awake?"

"Mm-hm," Harry said and blinked his eyes open heavily. He yawned and tried to cover his mouth with his other hand, but it felt weird. He brought it up in front of his eyes and looked at the bandage that was wrapped from finger tips to wrist, and tried to bend his fingers, but they wouldn't bend. He looked to his father, then, and frowned at the look he saw on Father's face.

"What's wrong, Father?" he asked.

"We had a bit of a scare today, you and I." Father caught his injured hand and laid it back down on Harry's chest. He still looked very serious, and it made Harry nervous. He never wanted to scare his father, never wanted him to be mad or upset at all. "We went to hospital, to see to your hand. They had to put a splint on it, and give you antibiotics. It will take a while to heal. A month, or more."

Oh. He knew it. He was a bother, too much trouble. Father would send him back to the Dursleys as soon as he could. "When are you . . ." Harry swallowed and worked his courage up. "Sir? When will I have to go back?"

Father frowned slightly. "Never, I should think. As long as you do what you're told and keep the injury clean and well dressed. Poppy, or rather, Madam Pomfrey should be able to help us with that. And I'll talk to her about who we can schedule the surgeries with."

"I . . ." Harry was so confused. None of that made any sense, except that he wouldn't be sent back to the Dursleys if he obeyed his father. He could do that. He could.

"What is it, Harry? You look confused."

"I'm sorry, sir."

Father patted his arm, and Harry only flinched a little. "No apologies, Harry. Not for not understanding. What do you need me to explain?"

"Surgeries, sir?"

"For your hand. You bit through the . . . extensor tendon, and they will need to do at least one surgery in the next week, to repair it. Otherwise, you might not be able to move your fingers properly again."

"Oh! That's why I couldn't pick anything up."

Father sighed. "Yes. Does it still hurt? They gave you some of their medicine for pain, but I can give you a small dose of potion if it hasn't done the trick." Father's gaze held his steadily. "And I want the truth, Harry. No telling me something is fine if it isn't. This is serious business."

Harry's gaze flicked away. "Yes, sir."

"Well, then? Does it hurt?"

"No, sir."

"You're sure? You're . . . you're not a bother, if you tell me it does hurt. I'm your father, and part of my job is to look out for you, and make you feel better if you're not well."

Harry bit his lip, feeling tears well in his eyes, though he couldn't have said why. Maybe just that no one had ever cared about him like this. "Sorry," he whispered, and wiped angrily at his face. "Sorry, sir."

"Harry." Father's voice was very quiet, but a gentle quiet, not the angry quiet he could sometimes get. "You are allowed to cry if you need to. You are allowed to tell me if you're in pain. You are allowed to tell me to leave you alone, if you feel I'm hovering too much. But you are not allowed to apologize for things that are not your fault."

He couldn't have stopped the tears then, if he tried. They ran unchecked down his face as he threw himself into his father's arms and sobbed and sobbed. He couldn't have put into words what his tears were for, but it seemed like they were for everything. For the cupboard, and Uncle Vernon's belt, and the chain in the backyard and bathtubs and all of it.

Father rubbed circles on his back and let him cry, only saying things like, "It's all right, you can cry. I'm here, Harry, let it out. Father's right here."

The kindness and soothing words only made him cry harder, but there was something . . . good about the tears. He felt like all the bad things were being released from the prison he'd made for them in his gut, in his head, and he felt cleaner afterwards. Almost peaceful.

When he had finished crying, he was really, really tired, and didn't think he could move. And he liked the safety of his father's arms and didn't want to move, anyway. And father continued to hold him, for a long time, still not talking, not really, just being.

And it was good.

---

Later, after Harry had washed up, and they had eaten lunch -- although it was more like tea, really, since it was half four before they emerged from Harry's room -- Nelli Popped! into their quarters with a letter addressed to Father. Father read it and nodded, then penned something quickly and sent it back with the house elf.

"Draco would love to come to visit," Father told him. "We've agreed for him to arrive this Wednesday."

"Brilliant!" Harry jumped up from the sofa where he'd been looking at the pictures in his Quidditch book. "When's Wednesday?"

"Day after tomorrow. He'll stay for a week." Father's expression turned stern, mostly a slight narrowing of his eyes, but Harry knew when Father did that, that Harry had to make sure and do whatever was said afterwards, 'cause it was really important. "You and I will have to work out rules for when he's here. I won't have the two of you running roughshod over the castle or the staff."

"No, sir. I mean, yes, sir." Harry frowned. "We'll be good."

The stern face softened. "I know you will."

---

Wednesday couldn't arrive soon enough to suit Harry. In the meantime, though, he had plenty to keep him busy. Soon after Father told him about Draco coming to Hogwarts, he met Madam Pomfrey for the first time. She was very nice and gave him a chocolate frog, which he'd never had before, and which he had to chase after and catch when it tried to hop away. She also told Father that Harry needed more potions, for nutrition, and that he could use a very small dose of something called Dreamless Sleep, but only every other night, to help with nightmares. And then she looked at Harry's hand and clucked over it and nodded and talked with Father about it for a long time, while Harry sat on the edge of a narrow, but very clean, bed in the infirmary, nibbled on his chocolate, and watched the light from the tall windows sparkle on the floor.

In the end, they decided he should have the surgery the very next day, and Madam Pomfrey scheduled it while they were still in the infirmary. The idea of someone cutting up his hand made Harry very nervous, but Father promised him that he wouldn't feel a thing, as he'd be asleep, and that Father would be waiting for him when he woke up.

He took some of the Dreamless potion that night and didn't have any nightmares at all, and he only had a little breakfast the next day, because going to sleep for the surgery might make him feel sick, Father said. They Floo'd to another hospital place, where Father let him sit on his lap and play with the buttons on his shirt, until it was time to go to sleep, and then, when he woke up later, Father was there, waiting, just like he'd said he would.

Harry's hand was a little sore after that, but he had a new splint on it, and a green bandage with little yellow birds flying all over it, and Harry watched them, entranced, until Father made him sit down to supper. After supper he could hardly keep his eyes open, and so Father cast a Repelling charm on his injured hand so he could shower before settling into bed without getting his bandages wet. Then Father told a story, but Harry fell asleep almost before he started.

On Wednesday morning, Father changed the dressing on Harry's hand, and it looked strange, with white threads poking through his skin, and the obvious tear marks where his teeth had sunk in. But it wasn't angry red anymore, and wasn't even as sore as it had been, so Harry hardly minded Father touching it and putting the special cream on.

After breakfast, they spent some time adding a second bed to Harry's room, and more shelves and another wardrobe, for Draco. Harry was so excited, Father had to tell him three times that he needed to settle down.

But finally, Draco arrived!

Just after lunch, a whooshing sound made Harry look up from his book to see Mister Malfoy step through their Floo. Harry immediately jumped to his feet, even as Father rose from the desk where he'd been going over lesson plans.

"Severus," Mister Malfoy said, and handed over a tiny trunk, that Father waved his wand over till it got bigger.

"Lucius." Father inclined his head. "So good of you to come."

"Of course." Mister Malfoy looked at Harry then, and he couldn't help but take a step back. His knees ran up against the settee, and he used it for balance. "We meet again, Harry."

"Good afternoon, sir. It's very nice to see you."

"I'm sure." Mister Malfoy turned when the Floo made another whooshing sound and Draco tumbled out.

Instead of falling, like Harry often did, though, Draco caught himself and kept his feet. He grinned at Harry till he caught sight of his own father's face, at which point he straightened up even more and held his head high. "Uncle Sev. Thank you for inviting me to stay with you."

Father inclined his head again. "You're welcome. You can put your belongings in the room at the end of the hall. Harry, if you would show Draco to your room? And mind your hand!"

"Yes, Father!" Harry jumped forward and skirted around Draco's father, then grabbed one end of the trunk so they could drag it down the hallway. "Right down here, Draco!"

Draco took up the other end and the two of them hurried out of the sitting room. "It's small, isn't it?" Draco said, when Harry opened the door to his room and stepped inside.

Harry shrugged, feeling a little worried in his tummy. Would Draco not want to be his friend, if his room wasn't as big? It was loads bigger than his cupboard was, and even bigger than Dudley's main bedroom, but he had to admit that Draco's room had been loads bigger than this. "It's big enough for me."

"I guess." Draco looked around. "We're meant to share?"

Harry nodded unhappily at Draco's tone.

"Well, which bed is mine then?"

"That one," Harry said, pointing. "Father said you could choose your own dec'rations if you want something different."

Draco nodded and threw himself onto the bed. "Not bad. I guess I can get used to it. I'll want more pillows, though." He looked around again. "Where are all your toys? Do you have a play room?"

Harry's mouth opened and then he shut it, uncomfortably reminded of Dudley and his two bedrooms. Draco's room had been filled with toys, he remembered. Had there been even more, in another room? Harry could hardly even imagine it. "These are my toys. I've got dragons, see?"

"Mm-hm. Where's your broom?"

Harry sighed, knowing he was about to be laughed at for being a baby, and helpless to do anything about it. He'd wanted Draco to visit, but he hadn't counted on it being like this. Pointing to the corner, he closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable jeers.

But when he heard nothing after another minute or two, he cautiously opened his eyes. Draco was standing by the broom, and his own lip was between his teeth as he watched Harry. "I had one like this, too. Till my birthday." He shrugged. "It's not really a baby's broom."

Harry gave him a tentative smile. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, after all. "Hey, Draco, d'you want to meet a giant?"

Draco's eyes widened, all traces of bragging gone. "Sure!"