Holding his bag of instruments, Harry walks back to the sick bay, trying to leave the cold behind--but it is not easy, not when it clings to everything and everyone, like a shadow with sharp edges. As he steps inside, he pauses, and then smiles--Henry is there, asleep, with his head pillowed on his arms. Slowly, he opens his eyes, and Harry sits next to him and takes his hand, and their fingers, entwined, create a little safe place of their own--a place that defies the shadows and the cold, a place that is warm like fire, and bright like a spark.