Exactly one year ago tonight, Harry Potter thought, Hermione and I came to Godric's Hollow, and I saw the cottage and my parents' graves. He refused to think about what had happened next.

But the image of the Potters' cottage had niggled at his mind, month after month, and he finally had to admit to himself that it felt as if the cottage were calling him… Calling him home…

And home he had gone—after Voldemort's lifeless body, permanently bereft of soul, had fallen to the floor of the Great Hall of Hogwarts; after the reporters and photographers and well-wishers and congratulators had finally departed the school grounds; after he had managed to convince the Auror's Office that he was not qualified in the least ("yet", they had interrupted, smiling) to be the Head, but he'd appreciate their considering his application to the Auror Training Program after he had passed his N.E.W.T.'s (they'd be "honored indeed, Mr. Potter" to ACCEPT his application, they'd assured him, smiling); after all the furor and celebration had subsided, and after the deceased had been appropriately honored—home Harry had gone.

To Godric's Hollow.

The only true home he had ever known, even though he could barely remember it.

His family's home, where he'd had parents who had loved him and taken care of him, where his dearest ones had died so that Harry himself might live.

Never mind that Ron had thought him a bit morbid.

"You're never going to live there, mate!"

"Yes, I am," Harry had assured him. 'I own the cottage, after all. And it's been waiting for me all these years. It's time I made it into a home again. I just hope I can get it all finished before we go back to school for our Seventh Year."

A bit easier said than done, as it turned out. When he and Hermione had seen the cottage from the road, they hadn't had a chance to examine it close up. He discovered that the upper floor had been damaged far worse than he'd realized, especially his old room. After consulting with a Wizarding architect, Harry had decided to salvage the lower level, and to remove the damaged second floor and rebuild. The new upstairs layout positioned a bathroom where his nursery had originally existed. He'd asked the architect to employ Wizardspace to increase the size of the master bedroom, as well as add two smaller bedrooms for guests or…

Harry smiled at his own thoughts as Ginny entered the living room, bearing a bowl of popcorn to string for the Christmas tree.

Ron and Hermione had spent the afternoon hand-painting small wooden ornaments, with Ron grumbling constantly about her refusing to let him do it with magic.

"It's Christmas, Ronald. It won't kill you to put forth a little effort. Don't worry—you can dry them with magic."

Harry had grinned as Ron rubbed a paint-stained finger across his itchy nose, leaving a purple-and-orange streak above his right nostril. Now, Harry watched as Ron levitated the ornaments onto the tree with casual flicks of his wand. Directing Ron's placement of the wooden decorations, Hermione smiled as Harry settled down on the sofa next to Ginny and reached for the threaded needle she was holding out. After crunching and swallowing the first piece of popcorn, he deftly skewered the second piece with the needle, sliding it onto the length of thread. Ginny worked from the opposite end of the thread with her own needle, and their popcorn garland slowly grew in length.

"Thanks again for inviting us to come for Christmas," Ginny murmured. "I'm glad the house was ready in time."

Harry nodded in agreement. "It was nice of Professor McGonagall to let me leave Hogwarts each weekend during fall term to work on it. The construction was finished before the end of summer, but it was actually harder deciding how to decorate the interior." He laughed. "I spent years taking care of the furnishings in my relatives' house on Privet Drive, but I definitely didn't want MY home to look like Aunt Petunia had done the decorating!"

Ron gave a faint groan. "I'll never forget that time we tried to Floo in to take you to the Quidditch World Cup. We weren't there long, but I couldn't believe how—" he groped for an adjective, "—impeccable—everything was. Aside from the bricks that Dad had blasted onto the rug! I'd suffocate in a place like that." He looked around Harry's living room appreciatively. "You've done a great job here, mate!"

All four of the teens paused to drink in the results of Harry's efforts. A stasis charm—probably cast by Dumbledore—had preserved the cottage through the years, so Harry had been able to use the original downstairs furniture. The living room reflected the cozy aura that Harry had witnessed in Voldemort's memories—how odd that the one memory he had to work from wasn't even his own. A fire crackled merrily in the stone-walled fireplace, sending flickers of warm light throughout the downstairs of the cottage. The upholstery was new—crimson and gold, of course—but the wooden tables and bookshelves were the very same that Lily's hands had caressed daily as she cared for her smiling husband and black-haired toddling son.

How many times his own chubby fingers must have grasped the warm maple tables as he used them for support while learning to walk, Harry mused. Impulsively, he reached out and took the near edge of the low coffee table between his thumb and fingers, closing his eyes, trying to will a memory of his own to come from the sensory contact. For a moment, time stood still. Then, Harry would have sworn he felt—really felt—his mother's gentle hand stroking his unruly hair. "Mum?"

"Harry?"

He opened his eyes to realize Ginny had reached out to smooth his hair with her fingertips.

"Are you okay?" she asked quietly, concerned love shining in her eyes.

Harry nodded slowly. "Yeah. Just lost in thought." He exhaled sharply. "It's weird, you know? I don't actually remember living here. But somehow, it FEELS right." He shrugged. "I just keep wanting to remember. Something. Anything."

Ginny took his hand and squeezed it. She didn't say anything, for which Harry felt grateful. No matter how well-intended, any comment would probably end up sounding trite right about now. He just squeezed her hand in turn, then raised it to kiss her fingertips.

"You taste like popcorn."

Ginny giggled. "Don't forget—I have a nice … sharp … NEEDLE!"

Harry threw his hands up in mock terror. "Oh, NO! Not that! Anything but a NEEDLE!"

Ron and Hermione joined in the laughter, Ron grabbing a handful of popcorn from the bowl to munch on.

"Hey!" protested Ginny. "That's for our garland!"

"I'm hungry," Ron mumbled through the popcorn. "When are we going to eat?"

"When it's suppertime," retorted Hermione, tossing her light brown curls for emphasis.

Ron pointed at one of the windows. "It's already getting dark."

Ginny hopped up and darted across the gaily-colored braided rug. "It's started to snow!" She pressed her nose against the windowpane, leaving twin steam trails upon the frigid glass.

Harry laid down his needle and joined Ginny at her window, looping his arms around her waist from behind. Hermione headed for the window on the other side of the fireplace, and after grabbing a second handful of popcorn, Ron joined her.

Silently, the foursome watched the first flurries develop into a true snowfall, the flakes whirling against the abrupt twilight of Christmas Eve. Behind them, Hermione's Muggle CD player, powered by Magic, had played Christmas music all day, some traditional, some New Age, and a few things in between. Ron hadn't understood many of the traditional songs, but he was happy enough to listen as long as Celestina Warbeck didn't put in an appearance.

Ron's puzzlement over the Christmas carols had caused Harry to ask the question he'd wondered about for years. "Why do Wizards celebrate Christmas if you don't believe in it?"

Ron had gaped for a moment. "Why do you think we don't believe in it? Of course we do! It's a time to get together with family and friends, and eat mountains of holiday food, and give gifts to those we love, and decorate the tree—too bad we don't have a gnome to dress up as your tree topper, mate—and build snowmen… Of course we believe in Christmas!"

Harry had looked then at Ginny and seen her expression, torn between agreeing with her brother and realizing that Ron's declaration was not quite in line with Harry's question. She had looked at Hermione helplessly, and Hermione had looked at Ron and Ginny both, biting her lip as if uncertain of what to say. Harry had seen that Hermione alone had understood his question, but she was waiting for Harry to explain his own point of view.

Gee, Hermione, thought Harry, of all times for you NOT to speak up…

But then she had—only to weasel out of the situation by asking straight out, "What do you believe, Harry? About Christmas? Are you religious? Since you always spent Christmas at Hogwarts, I always assumed—maybe wrongly?—that the religious side of Christmas didn't matter that much to you. Was I wrong?"

Talk about putting him on the spot! Harry had floundered for a reply, while Ginny watched him with serious eyes and Ron had mouthed the word "religious" with confusion written all over his freckled features.

"I…" Harry had struggled to order his thoughts. "I never went to church or anything when I was living with the Dursleys." (Thankfully, Ron hadn't mouthed "church"—maybe he just thought they were decorative Muggle architecture?) "They never went themselves. Not even for Christmas or Easter…" His voice had trailed off awkwardly.

Hermione had tried to help him out. "So, the Dursleys just celebrated a secular Christmas? So many Muggles do, after all."

Harry had caught Ron mouthing "secular" while looking at Ginny with his eyebrows disappearing up under the bottom of his fringe. Ginny had looked completely lost, giving a small shake of her head in response to Ron's silent query.

"I guess," Harry had mumbled in response to Hermione's question. But it still didn't answer his original question…

"So," Hermione had continued, "non-religious Muggle Christmas celebrations are pretty much the same as Wizard Christmas celebrations, wouldn't you say?"

Harry had frowned. "Well, no. That's not my question."

"Then what's your point?" Hermione had asked a bit huffily.

"What's 'religious' got to do with Christmas?" Ron had suddenly interjected, still looking confused.

"THAT'S my point!" Harry had shouted. "Muggles know what Christmas is really about, no matter how they choose to celebrate it … or not. Wizards have no clue, but they … they…" He had thrown his hands in the air in frustration. "Forget it. Just forget it! I shouldn't have even brought it up." He'd looked around at his friends' startled expressions. "I'm sorry."

And now, several hours later, standing at the window behind Ginny, watching the snow beginning to accumulate on the frozen ground, Harry finally managed to pin down the crux of the matter: He wished he knew what his parents had believed. If Lily and James had lived, what would their Christmas celebrations have been like? His father had been a Pureblood Wizard, his mother a Muggle-born Witch. Two different backgrounds, potentially two opposing sets of beliefs. How would Lily and James have raised their son? What would they have taught their son to believe? The snow was falling on the churchyard where they were buried, but had they ever attended church? Had they ever taken Harry? What was he supposed to believe about Christmas?

Wizards believed in Merlin and put gnomes on top of Christmas trees.

Harry frowned. No, that wasn't the same as a secular Muggle Christmas—it seemed more like a … parody. Or a mockery.

His arms tightened around Ginny. If only his parents had lived. Long enough, at least, to guide him. This Christmas Eve, here in Godric's Hollow, was turning out to be the hardest one of his entire life. He found this—angst—far harder to deal with than living in a cupboard and watching Dudley open fifty presents.

"Mum," he whispered, his breath stirring against Ginny's silky red tresses.

"Hmm?" she inquired quietly, not quite catching his whispered appeal.

"I'm just missing my parents," he whispered into her ear.

"I'm sorry," she whispered back, her breath frosting on the glass pane.

"Me, too."

"I'm hungry!"

"Ronald!"

Harry felt Ginny's ribcage shake with silent laughter. He kissed her cheek, then turned back toward Ron and Hermione. "Okay, you guys—let's finish the tree. I found some old Christmas decorations—mostly Muggle, probably my mum's—this summer when I was clearing stuff out of the old attic before they Banished the upper story of the cottage. I'd like to put them on the tree."

"I'll finish the popcorn garland," Ginny said, returning to the comfy sofa to pick up her needle.

Ron reached into the popcorn bowl again, and Hermione smacked his hand. "We'll fix supper AFTER we finish the tree. Right, Harry?"

"Right. I'll get the box of my parents' decorations."

As he turned to go upstairs, something caught his side vision. It was the antique mirror over the mantelpiece. Again. Harry frowned uneasily. That made the third time today that he'd thought he'd seen … something. In the mirror. More than a reflection. But each time he'd looked again, the mirror simply reflected the creamy plastered walls flickering in the firelight, the crimson curtains, the polished golden-brown finish of the maple furniture, the bottom of the stairs, and the open doorway into the snug kitchen. And Harry's frowning face.

With a final glare into the tarnished mirror, he turned and trotted up the steep stairs to fetch down the box from his new attic.

Hermione and Ginny exclaimed over the ornaments with delight, while Ron took over stringing the popcorn, eating one puffy piece for each one that he threaded onto the needle.

"These are so pretty!" Ginny carefully unwrapped the tissue paper, extracting shiny glass balls which bore just a tiny bit of tarnish and dust from a long-ago Christmas. Red, blue, green, silver, and gold, they reflected her smiling face, the cheery fire, and the room itself in an exaggerated curve, like a fish's eye.

As she knelt on the rug, Hermione was examining several novelty ornaments which seemed far older than the glass balls. "I'll bet your mother brought some of these from your grandparents' home, Harry," she proclaimed, holding up a couple of intricately-designed ornaments to show him. They showed more signs of wear and tarnish, had tiny smears of dried evergreen sap, and sported a thicker film of dust.

"They don't even move," Ron complained. "They don't DO anything."

"They're Muggle ornaments, Ronald," Hermione sighed. "They're PRETTY. They don't have to DO anything."

Ginny and Harry exchanged grins as they unwrapped more beaded glass designs, bells, angels, and more than a dozen stiffly-starched hand-crocheted snowflakes, which Harry took a second, closer look at when Ginny commented that Lily or her mother might have made these themselves one Christmas.

"Whoa!" he breathed, touching the slightly-yellowing snowflakes with a reverent fingertip. "I don't know what sort of hobbies Mum or my grandmother had. But I'll take extra special care of these, just in case."

Ron, meanwhile, had finished stringing the last of the popcorn and levitated the completed garland toward the Christmas tree.

Ginny glowered at him. "That garland should be at least eight feet longer, Ron."

"Ran out of popcorn," he said casually, flicking his wand in an erratic movement, which caused the garland to land haphazardly amongst the pine boughs. Glancing wistfully at the kitchen, he plunked himself into a gold-colored lounge chair and dug down into the big cardboard box of Christmas decorations. "What are these?"

Harry looked up. "Christmas lights. For the tree."

Ron stared at the mass of plastic-coated wires tangling in his hand. "You must be joking."

Hermione grinned and pointed her wand at the string of multi-colored lights. They lit up brightly, causing Ron to yelp in alarm and drop the wiry mess.

"Bloody hell!"

His friends laughed, and Ginny collapsed, gasping, "Oh, Dad would LOVE those!"

"Go ahead and take them with you tomorrow," Harry offered, carefully sliding the crocheted flakes onto new metal hooks.

Ginny stared at him. "But, aren't you going to put them on your tree?"

Harry shook his head. "I'm letting Hermione handle the lighting charms. This tree is going to be part Wizard and part Muggle—like me."

"Okay," said Ginny. "Thanks, Harry! I can't wait to see Dad's face! He adores anything ee-leck-trick! See, I can say it properly now!"

Harry chuckled. "You're doing great, Gin!"

Ron scrabbled around under a mass of silver and gold tinsel and artificial Christmas roses, and he felt what might be a smaller box at the bottom of the larger one. He pulled it up out of the tinsel camouflage and opened it.

"Anything interesting?" asked Harry, attempting to untangle several strings of shiny, red-beaded garlands.

From the square-ish white box, Ron pulled out an ornament larger than the others they'd already unwrapped. "Some sort of silver star," he replied, turning it over curiously. "Wonder why it was stored away separately?"

Harry gave up his fight with the red beads and glanced at the item in Ron's hands.

"Hang a shining star," he whispered, the blood draining from his face. His head swam and he nearly pitched forward onto the coffee table full of glass balls.

"Harry!" Ginny grabbed his arm and forced him back onto the sofa.

Harry paid no attention to her—his unblinking eyes remained fixed upon the star. Wordlessly, Ron handed it to him, and Harry accepted it with trembling hands. "Hang a shining star!" he repeated huskily. "I know this star! I REMEMBER this star!" Tears welled in his eyes, causing his vision of the star to wobble, and he gasped for breath. "Hang a shining star, Harry! Hang a shining star!" Tears rolled down his cheeks. "She said it! MUM said it! 'Hang a shining star, Harry!' And I hung it! At the top of the tree! He lifted me up—oh, so high!—and I hung the shining star at the very top of the tree!"

Hermione and Ginny exchanged looks. Ron looked at them questioningly.

"Hang a shining star!" Harry whispered in awe. "I REMEMBER!"

Ginny put a gentle hand on Harry's arm, patting it softly. After several long moments where he continued to stare at the star in his hands, Harry finally turned his head to meet her eyes. Ginny, however, dropped her own gaze, although her hand remained on his arm.

Harry looked next at Hermione, frowning at the concerned expression on her face. "What?" he asked impatiently.

"Harry," she began cautiously, "when did that happen?"

"Christmas, of course!" he said uncomprehendingly. Why did Hermione always have to make mountains from thin air? She couldn't even be bothered to look for a proper molehill. "I hung the star on our Christmas tree."

Again, Hermione and Ginny exchanged looks. Suddenly, even Ron caught on. "But, mate, you were born in July. Christmas comes in December."

"So?"

Ron looked at the star uneasily. "You would have had only one Christmas with your parents."

"Yeah. SO?"

Ron looked at Hermione.

"Harry," she explained carefully, "you wouldn't have been quite five months old at your first Christmas."

"But…" Harry's mouth suddenly went dry. "But I REMEMBER it," he whispered desperately. "It HAPPENED! I KNOW it did." He tried to swallow the sob rising up in his throat. "'Hang a shining star, Harry!' She SAID it. She DID."

Suddenly, he WAS sobbing—deep, wrenching sobs—and he could feel Ginny's arms around him and hear her own gasps and snifflings, feel the hot wetness of her own tears on his shoulder. He could hear Hermione crying quietly from her end of the low table. How could he be sobbing completely out of control, yet still be hyperaware of everything happening around him?

The wooden frame of the gold chair creaked as Ron stood up.

"I'll—just go start supper, shall I?"

Harry forced himself to nod, trying to rescue Ron, and he heard hasty footsteps making for the kitchen.

Hang a shining star … Lily HAD said it, and now—with his eyes closed—he could SEE her! Laughing, clapping, pointing toward the top of the decorated tree. Harry could see his own tiny hand raised toward the treetop, the shining silver star dangling from the large silver hook clutched in his pudgy fist. Hang a shining star, Harry! Hang a shining star! And he had hung it, somehow managing to snag the hook around a projecting, needle-lined branch at the tree's highest point. Mummy clapping her hands, the dark red curtain of her hair swinging back over her shoulders as she laughed in delight at his success, her emerald eyes flashing merrily as he giggled. Strong hands had raised him to the very top of the tree, far higher than his mum could ever have lifted him, and those same strong hands now lowered him, holding him securely as his mother applauded him and his human crane. Harry was swung around to face the man with the black hair and black eyes that crinkled at the corners in amusement at his accomplishment…

Black. Eyes.

Harry stopped breathing. He'd only ever met one person with black eyes, the same black eyes that had last looked into his own in the Shrieking Shack.

Snape. Severus Snape. Lily's childhood friend. The bravest man Harry had ever known.

Somehow, Severus Snape had lifted him high up to hang a shining star at the top of the Potters' Christmas tree when Harry was—five months old? Harry groaned. There was no way he could tell this bit of memory to Hermione. The moment he turned his back, she'd be fire-calling St. Mungo's. He didn't relish the idea of joining Gilderoy Lockhart for another Christmas on the closed ward!

But—Snape! How? WHY?

And why did he have to die?

If it weren't for Nagini, for Voldemort, Harry could have had his questions answered. Snape might even have been able to tell him how his parents celebrated Christmas.

Harry sighed, rubbing his eyes, smearing away the remains of his tears. So many "if only's" in his life… He stared disconsolately into the golden flames, feeling Ginny still wrapped around him, although her own snifflings had faded. Hermione sat quietly on the rug, fiddling with the glass balls. Harry could hear Ron noisily clattering about in the kitchen as he got supper preparations underway. Nobody wanted to even look at Harry anymore; yet, without warning, Harry KNEW he was being watched.

Voldemort!

Harry almost turned toward the window, the same window through which the most evil Dark Wizard had spied upon baby Harry and his parents. But Voldemort was dead. Gone for good. Harry knew that without a doubt.

This feeling of being watched… He continued to stare into the flames dancing in the stone fireplace, but he softened the focus of his eyes, trying to bring back the feeling of hyperawareness he'd experienced earlier. Where was the watcher? And WHO was it?

His peripheral vision picked up bits and pieces of movement—Ginny's hand, her forefinger tracing circles on his knee; Hermione's dangling several glass balls from their respective hooks, watching them swing back and forth; and the moving reflection in the antique mirror, a reflection that wasn't Ron, not from Harry's angle of observation…

Harry continued to stare into the fireplace, his attention now focused on the upper margin of his peripheral vision. Again! Faint movement. Harry's heart began to thud, and he knew Ginny couldn't help but notice it.

Without changing his position in the slightest, Harry flicked his gaze upwards to the tarnished mirror above the mantel. Reflexively, he whipped his wand tip toward the mirror—only the thought of Lockhart kept him from shouting, "Stupefy!"

"What's wrong, Harry?"

Ron had come up behind the sofa, pointing his wand at the mirror. Harry suddenly realized that Ginny and Hermione were also on their feet, wands pointed at the mirror, looking puzzled as to why they should be doing this.

Harry sighed. "Everyone, just … put your wands away, okay? Trick of the firelight, I guess. Sorry about that." He tucked his own wand up his sleeve, deliberately looking away from the mirror. Standing up rather stiffly, he stretched before rounding the sofa to clap Ron on the shoulder.

"So, what's for supper? I could hear how busy you've been in the kitchen."

Ron's cheeks reddened. "Uh, well…"

"Go on," Harry urged. "What did you fix for us?"

"I—er—actually, I just fixed my own supper."

The other three stared at him.

"What?" Ron asked defensively. "I was HUNGRY! And you all looked like … you WEREN'T all that hungry. At … that … moment."

The other Gryffindors looked at each other, looked at Ron, who had a bit of brown mustard lurking by the corner of his mouth, and burst out laughing.

"WHAT?" demanded Ron huffily. "I WAS hungry, you know!"

They laughed even harder.

As the others headed into the kitchen, Harry whipped his head around to look at the mirror once more.

The transparent, silvery image of Severus Snape's face smirked slightly before fading away.

Again.

By eleven o'clock, Harry had escorted his Christmas guests upstairs, where Ginny and Hermione had tumbled into twin beds in one of the spare rooms, while Ron fell into a food-induced stupor in the other, snoring loudly through the closed door. It wasn't surprising, actually, given that the redhead had indulged in a full meal on top of his earlier super-sized sandwich.

Harry had waited impatiently for the others to go on to bed, trying not to APPEAR impatient as the four of them finished decorating the tree after supper. For some reason, Harry had hesitated to hang the silver star, deciding to place it carefully on the coffee table for the time being. Maybe he'd hang it tomorrow, on Christmas morning. The tree looked delightful, even without the star, Lily's baubles reflecting the softly-glowing marble-sized orbs which Hermione had charmed onto the tree. Now, if Ron would just refrain from eating the popcorn garland…

After ensuring that his three guests were ensconced in their respective rooms for the night, Harry crept down the darkened stairs to the living room, his silent feet encased in thick woolen socks. The tree glowed warmly golden in the corner, as the fire's remaining flames dwindled down to crimson embers in the grate.

Wand in hand, Harry stood before the fireplace, staring into the empty mirror above it. No Snape, but he'd definitely been there earlier. No way had Harry hallucinated that face!

"Show yourself," he whispered, his fingers clenched around the length of holly. "Snape—show yourself!"

For a long moment, the mirror reflected only Harry's dimly-lit features. Then, the unmistakable image of Severus Snape slowly materialized upon the tarnished silver backing of the mirror. Harry stared at the image, his green eyes wide with amazement.

"It really IS you! I KNEW it was!" Harry whispered hoarsely. "Professor Snape!"

The silvery transparent face grimaced slightly. "Obviously."

Harry stared into the black eyes bemusedly. "Are you a ghost?"

"Not quite," the erstwhile Potions Master replied, frowning.

A horrifying possibility crossed Harry's mind. "This mirror—is it a Horcrux? YOUR Horcrux?"

The mirror snorted.

"Hardly, Potter."

"Then WHAT?" Harry demanded. Before Snape could answer, he added, "Can you get out of there? I mean, could you appear here, in this room?"

Snape slowly shook his head.

"This mirror, Potter, is little more than a poor equivalent of a Wizarding portrait."

Harry digested that piece of information. Or, rather, he tried to. At his rather blank look, Snape sighed and clarified the situation.

"Your mother worked a bit of Magic to cast my reflection onto the back of the mirror many years ago. Then she Charmed a bit of my living essence into the mirror, just as they do to a portrait in order for it to become animated after the subject's death. Thus, once my physical body had died, my mirror self could appear and speak, just as if I'd had my painted image preserved in a portrait." He rolled his eyes, seeming somewhat disgusted. "I assure you, Potter, that a mirror is an extremely poor substitute for a portrait. I would strongly advise you to have your own portrait properly painted."

After a moment, Harry nodded, although he'd never considered having his portrait painted. He couldn't imagine "living on" as a portrait, like those which lined the walls of Hogwarts. That was just—too weird.

"Okay, so you're not a ghost and you're not a Horcrux. But why did my mum create your 'portrait' in HER mirror? Did my dad know?" Another thought jolted through his brain. "Did you just hang up there SPYING on them? On US?"

The mirror snorted so loudly that Harry looked to see if the glass had fogged. It hadn't.

"The only spying I ever did was for Albus Dumbledore," Snape smirked. "And Dumbledore never asked me to spy on your family."

Harry blew out a huge sigh of relief. "Right. Good. But why…"

Snape cocked his head slightly, looking sideways at Harry from the corner of his eye. "Your mother was gravely concerned for your safety. It was always her intention to have you grow up in this house. However, if anything were to happen to her and James, she wanted for you to inherit the cottage and eventually raise your own children here."

Harry's eyes flew instinctively to the mirror's reflection of the staircase. Up those stairs, Ginny lay sleeping. One day, his—their—children would come scampering down the steps on a cold Christmas morning, their eyes alight with anticipation as they pounced upon the bounty displayed beneath the tree.

"But the three of you had been…" Snape hesitated.

"Marked for death," Harry finished, looking him in the eye.

Snape's gaze fell momentarily, then refocused on the younger wizard. "Yes. This cottage would go to you, if you survived, and Lily… Lily wished for there to be someone watching over you, if she and your father couldn't be here for you themselves. Thus, the mirror.

His voice filled with confusion, Harry murmured, "But why you? Especially when you were still alive back then? What good would the mirror have done while you were alive?"

This time, the mirror's snort sounded somewhat rueful. "I imagine Lily did not believe that I would live much longer. She was the only person besides Dumbledore who knew I was spying on the Dark Lord for the Order. Lily believed that I would be killed the moment that the Dark Lord discovered my true loyalties."

"In other words, Mum thought you'd die really young?"

His lips tight, Snape nodded silently, long black hair reflecting silvery highlights as it swung against his cheeks.

"How ironic that Voldemort never knew the truth. To the very end, he believed you were his loyal follower," Harry asserted.

Disgust coloring his tone, Snape muttered, "He certainly experienced several serious moments of doubt through the years."

Harry swallowed hard, trying not to imagine what must have transpired on those occasions.

"So … I was supposed to grow up here, with you watching over me from the mirror?"

Snape's eyebrow quirked. "Not quite that simple, Potter. The mirror was supposed to go WITH you, wherever you lived. Lily had made that stipulation in her will, so that I could 'spring into action' the moment I died." He smirked without humor. "However, her sister objected quite strenuously when Dumbledore showed up on her doorstep with the mirror on the day that Lily's will was read."

"So Aunt Petunia knew it was a magic mirror? No wonder she was angry! She HATED magic! No wonder she wouldn't have wanted it in her house."

"She hated to be reminded of a power which she did not possess," Snape corrected him. "But she did rightly guess that the mirror was somehow Magical in nature, and she flatly refused to have anything to do with it, even if it did belong to the nephew whom she'd taken in. After Petunia rejected the idea of keeping the mirror in her home, Dumbledore rehung it here in the cottage, where it remained protected by the stasis charms and other wards which he cast after your parents' deaths. And, as I was still alive when you finally came to Hogwarts, there was never any need for it to be brought to the school at all."

"But now I'm living here in the cottage, the mirror's here, and you're … here." Harry couldn't bring himself to say "dead"—not when Snape was speaking to him so calmly, face to mirrored face.

The two wizards regarded each other.

Harry finally broke the silence. "Um—so, are you planning to … watch over me for the rest of my life?" What an incredibly unnerving thought.

The mirror chuckled.

A rather dark chuckle, to be sure, but an amused chuckle, nevertheless.

Harry could see his own reflected eyes bugging out as he watched his dour former Professor laugh quietly.

"Personally, Potter, I should prefer not to, since Lily only made me promise to do so until you were of age."

"Yes, well, I am now. So don't feel as if you have to knock yourself out. I can manage. I've taken care of myself all of my life. I had to. You can just—run along, Professor. Or can you? Are you trapped in the mirror forever?" Harry felt that his eyes must now appear as protuberant as Luna Lovegood's at the idea of Snape's looming over his every moment until the end of Harry's final days.

Snape examined his former student speculatively. "You could always break the mirror, Potter. However, that seems a rather drastic step to take with one of your mother's treasured possessions. I seem to recall that this mirror originally belonged to one of your maternal great-grandmothers."

Harry nodded dumbly. Then he thought to ask, "If you 'came back' in the mirror when you died in the Shrieking Shack…"

The silvered head dipped once, affirmatively.

"…then why did I not see you until today? I've been around this mirror ever since I began restoring my cottage last summer."

Snape actually smiled. "Like Wizarding portraits, I do actually spend the majority of my time sleeping. Unlike a portrait, however, the mirror shows my image only when I'm awake." He looked unusually thoughtful for a moment. "I do believe that is the only advantage I can see in the mirror over a portrait—I don't have people gawking at me while I'm sleeping."

Harry couldn't help grinning. "I guess you don't have to worry about anyone painting a fake moustache on your face while you're sleeping, either. That might have been a problem with a portrait!"

The mirror snorted forcefully.

"I daresay such a miscreant would not have stopped at a mere moustache."

When did Snape develop a sense of humor, Harry wondered, even as he laughed quietly. "I suspect you are one hundred percent correct about that, sir."

Snape smirked, and this time Harry could detect a silver glint of amusement in the black eyes.

"So," he continued, "you've been sleeping all these months? Some watchdog you turned out to be!"

The mirror laughed aloud, the rich tones flowing to every corner of the softly-lit living room. "Had you truly needed my assistance, such as it might be, I would have woken before now."

Even as Harry himself laughed, he couldn't believe he was grinning back at a smiling Severus Snape. This was just too surreal! Ron would never believe him!

When they had quieted, Snape inquired, "I take it that you wish for me to leave? Go back to sleep until July?"

"July?"

"Lily was quite insistent that I be 'especially attentive' to you on your birthday and at Christmas."

"Christmas!" exclaimed Harry. "So that's why you've been hanging about all day."

As Snape inclined his head in acknowledgment, a thought shot across Harry's mind. "Before you go … back to sleep … could you tell me something? About this?" Harry turned around and crossed the woven rug to the maple coffee table. He picked up the shining star ornament and brought to over to the fireplace, holding it up toward the mirror for Snape's inspection.

"What do you wish to know?"

Harry cradled the star gently between his palms. "I remember—I SEEM to remember hanging this on a Christmas tree when I was young. I remember being held up high so I could hang it at the very top of the tree, and Mum kept saying, 'Hang a shining star, Harry! Hang a shining star!' And when I'd hung it, I was lowered down again and someone was holding me. A man. A man with black eyes. Was that you? And how could I have hung an ornament when I was only five months old on my first Christmas?" He looked up at Snape in silent appeal. Please have the answers, his emerald eyes begged. I need to KNOW!

The corners of Snape's eyes crinkled, just like the man's in Harry's memory.

"Yes, I held you up to hang the star. But it wasn't Christmas."

Harry gaped at him. "But it was a Christmas tree—I KNOW it was!"

"A Christmas tree, yes, but it happened on your birthday."

"What? My birthday? In July? Why?"

The mirror chuckled.

"It was Lily's idea." Snape paused for a moment. "I don't know whether she'd had a premonition—she had a bit of the Sight, your mother. But she was so afraid that you wouldn't have a second Christmas, she decided to celebrate Christmas on your first birthday. A double celebration, complete with a Christmas tree and a birthday cake."

Harry's jaw dropped again. "You're joking!"

"Lily was quite serious."

"And YOU were there?"

"That's the day she charmed the mirror."

Harry thought for a moment. "And … my dad?"

Snape's lips compressed into a thin silver line. "James did us the courtesy of going to the kitchen while Lily discussed the mirror with me."

"And the star?"

"The tree was fully decorated, all but the star. She asked me to hold you up. Your father came to the kitchen doorway to watch."

"Did he … did he take a picture of me hanging the star?" It would be nice to have something to show to Hermione and the others, so they'd know he wasn't mental.

"No." The mirror sighed. "I doubt that James would have wanted a look at a photograph of me holding up his son."

This time, it was Harry who sighed. "I see." He fell silent, thinking. After a couple of minutes, during which the only sound in the room came from a crackling ember as it fell through the grate, Harry dared to ask, "WHY were you there, Professor? I mean … my mum …" He trailed off awkwardly, then blurted out, "I'm sorry, sir. Truly, I am. About the Pensieve. I never got to tell you before you died, but I know I never should have intruded into your private memories. But when I did … I could finally understand your attitude toward my father. And Sirius. And Lupin. I—I honestly don't blame you for hating them."

Harry peered at Snape's silvered face, which had taken on that impenetrable mask that had been so characteristic of the living Snape.

"About my mum… If the two of you parted so … so badly in Fifth Year, why did she ask you to 'watch over me'? Was it just because she figured you'd die before anyone else did? That seems rather cold…"

The mirror hmphhed.

"Lily guessed that I'd been the one who told Dumbledore that the Dark Lord had targeted the three of you. She knew I'd taken the Dark Mark. But she also knew my heart, better even than I did. When she put me on the spot, I admitted I'd passed the information to Dumbledore and asked for him to protect her … family." Snape's black gaze met Harry's emerald eyes. "She forgave me for that day by the lake. She had no idea that, by then, I had committed another act which was far more unforgivable." He closed his eyes in remembered pain. "And she put her trust in me to watch over her son, if I would agree. I did—and I watched over you from the moment you first set foot in Hogwarts. I didn't need a mirror for that."

Harry looked down at his wand, gently stroking its polished length. How excited he'd been to go to Hogwarts, and he'd gone, never realizing that his mother's request for Snape's protection would result in his life being saved on multiple occasions. He looked back up at Snape.

"Thank you, sir. I never got to say that either, but I mean it sincerely. Thank you for watching over me and saving my life." He paused. "And I'm sorry I caused you so much trouble through the years."

Did the mirror just wobble, Harry wondered. Better not to ask!

"I did it for Lily, Potter."

Harry's head bobbed. "I realize that. But I personally do appreciate your efforts. Just so you know."

Snape quirked his eyebrow. "Tell me, Potter. Has our little discussion ended? May I sleep until July?"

"Could I…"

"Spit it out, Potter."

"Do you … happen to know … what my parents believed about Christmas?"

The mirror frowned at his question. "In what respect?"

"Christmas? You know—were they religious or not? Did they go to church? Or did they have a secular Muggle celebration? Or did they do a … parody? Like other Wizards do?" Harry gulped involuntarily. Who KNEW what Snape himself believed. "Do you know what I mean, Professor?"

Snape studied him closely.

"Yes, Potter," he responded at last. "I do understand your meaning. As for your father, I can't really answer. I only ever saw him around Christmas time at school. Nothing would cause me to believe that he had any religious beliefs. At least not while he was still a student. Whether he developed other beliefs later on, I cannot say."

Harry's face fell. "So, do you think he had a typical Wizarding attitude toward Christmas? Back then?"

"I believe that would probably be a fairly accurate assessment."

"And my mum?"

Snape smiled so broadly that the mirror virtually lit up.

"Lily believed in Christmas, oh, yes! When we were children, her parents always invited me to go with them to church for Christmas services. Lily and I also went caroling with a children's choir for several years. One year, we took part in a Nativity play—we were two halves of a camel."

Harry laughed aloud in astonishment. "Which half were you?"

The mirror glared at him. "The front half, of course. Do you honestly think I would agree to be the HIND end of any animal?"

Unable to help himself, Harry snickered loudly.

"Hmphh." Snape tossed his long hair in annoyance. "Unlike Petunia, who showed no real interest in Christmas aside from the commercial aspect of amassing as many gifts as possible, Lily plunged into the celebration with a joyous heart. She baked with her mother, decorated with her father, and read the Christmas story aloud from the Holy Bible after lighting a white Christmas candle."

"The Christmas story?" murmured Harry uncertainly. "Um—where, exactly?"

"Lily's favorite version was in the Gospel According to Luke. She had it memorized, but she would always open the Bible and read it aloud. It was part of the Evans' holiday tradition."

"Luke."

Snape nodded. Suddenly looking thoughtful, he asked, "Did you find Lily's Bible when you were restoring the cottage?"

Harry shook his head. "I didn't know she had one, so I didn't know to look for it. And it never turned up during the cottage renovations, either." His shoulders slumped sadly. "It would have been nice to have something that meant so much to my mum."

"The day I was here…" Snape's voice trailed off as he closed his eyes in concentration, "…she took it out to read to you before you hung the star. It was—" he pointed toward a built-in bookcase, "—in there. A hidden drawer, if I recall correctly."

Harry approached the bookcase and ran his hands over the surface. "I don't see a drawer."

"I just told you it was hidden," Snape retorted tartly.

Rolling his eyes, Harry backed up several feet. Pointing his wand at the bookcase, he said, "Alohomora drawer!"

A quiet click preceded the sudden sliding open of what Harry had assumed was a solid panel of wood. Slowly, he peered into the drawer which had emerged … and there it was. A Bible bound in burgundy leather, with a black satin ribbon dangling from between its pages. Mesmerized, Harry carefully picked up the heavy tome, noting the name "Lily Evans" stamped in small gold letters toward the bottom of the front cover. He ran his fingers over the gold, imagining his mother to have done the same upon first receiving the Bible for her own.

Harry then opened the Bible to the pages which the ribbon marked, and there he found the Gospel According to Luke, the very pages containing the Christmas story. Overcome by a sudden urge, he conjured a white pillar candle and set it on the mantelpiece, just to the side of the antique mirror. After lighting it with his wand, he began to read aloud the very words which his mother had read each Christmas:

"3 And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city.

"4 And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem…

"5 To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child…

"7 And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn…

"10 And the angel said … Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.

"11 For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord…"

Snape listened silently until Harry had finished reading and quietly closed the Bible.

Harry hugged the holy book to his chest, looking searchingly up at Snape. "She really believed this, didn't she, Professor?"

"Indeed she did."

Harry bit his lip. "But so many people don't. They say there's no real proof. That's what Aunt Petunia always claimed."

"Quite frankly, Potter, I'd find it easier to take the Bible on faith than to take Petunia Evans Dursley with a notarized affadavit."

Harry laughed, then quickly sobered.

"What … do you believe, sir?"

Snape remained silent for so long, Harry thought he'd refuse to answer altogether. Then, quietly, reverently, the silvery image quoted, "For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life."

"I've heard that before," said Harry.

"John 3:16," noted Snape. "I believe it has been translated into more languages than any other single verse of scripture."

"And you believe it, sir?"

Snape's reflected image seemed to glow.

"I was dying," he whispered. Then, in a stronger voice, he said, "I lay on the floor of the Shrieking Shack as you knelt above me. You may find this hard to believe, but I was grateful that you were there. You, Miss Granger, and Mr. Weasley, all. I did not relish the idea of dying alone. Particularly in such a fashion. Had you not come, my body might not have been found for many months. Since you all were there, I knew that someone would be certain to give me a burial, whether or not you felt that I deserved one. You and your cohorts are decent-hearted people, after all." He looked down at Harry without scorn or sneering. Harry realized that Snape had just paid him a compliment.

Harry nodded. "Yes, we DID make sure of it! We couldn't just leave you there … like that." He shuddered. "I'd never be able to live with myself…"

With a wry smile, Snape continued.

"I lay dying, and all I could think about was Lily. I wanted…" He took a ragged breath. "I wanted to see her one last time. My childhood friend. The only woman I had ever loved. I just wished I could look into her eyes once more… You have her eyes, Harry."

Harry's emerald eyes widened at the man's use of his given name. "That's why you said—"

"Look … at … me."

Tears sprang to Harry's eyes as the memory of that moment, of those words, fell into their correct context. "I'm so sorry, sir. I must have been a poor substitute."

Snape's image glowed even brighter.

"No need to apologize, Harry. I began by seeing your eyes, but then—then I saw Lily's own eyes. She was there, leaning over me, speaking so clearly…"

Snape's black eyes glistened with a silvery glint of moisture.

"What…" whispered Harry, "what did she say?"

"'Believe, Severus! BELIEVE!'"

A luminescent tear trickled down his silver cheek.

"And I did. I DID."

The mirror gave a gasping sob.

"In that final second before dying, I SAW it, Harry. It was all there, so beautiful, more beautiful than anything Magical. Magic pales in comparison to Truth."

"Truth?"

"Truth. It's all TRUE, Harry. The Christmas story is TRUE. Lily showed me."

Tears rolled down Harry's cheeks. "And Mum is there?"

"She'll be waiting for you, too, when your time comes. But you must BELIEVE."

Snape bowed his head, compressing his quivering lips. "I hadn't thought I was worthy of being saved. After all I had done. The mistakes I had made. All of the people I'd hurt … and worse. The person I'd become while serving the Dark Lord. And even after turning back to the Light, I was no longer a good person. Something always felt … broken … inside me. But Lily … she showed me that I only needed to BELIEVE, and all was possible."

Harry swiped his hand across his cheeks, trying to bring his tears under control. Finally, he KNEW what he wanted to believe about Christmas, what his mother had believed as well, but…

"What about Dad? Was he there with Mum?"

Snape shrugged. "I only saw Lily. But Harry, it doesn't mean that your father didn't Believe before he died. Lily always could be extremely persuasive with hardheaded Gryffindors."

Harry gave an involuntary snicker through his tear-clogged nose.

"However, I suppose it's just as well that I only saw Lily in the end. If James had put in an appearance, I might have decided I'd be better off … elsewhere."

"Really!" Harry blurted out, rather shocked that Snape would say such a thing in the wake of their illuminating discussion.

Snape smirked slightly, but with good humor. "No, not really. But time was so short—mere seconds—I didn't hesitate with Lily alone. Had I hesitated, my soul would have been lost."

Harry stared down at the fading embers in the fireplace, a reminder of the lively fire which had burned there just a few hours earlier. Like people's lives, he mused. Strong in the beginning, but fading to nothingness in the end. Or, occasionally, doused and extinguished without warning. He looked back up at Snape, one more question in his heart.

"And the Christmas story … it works for Wizards, too? Not just Muggles?"

"'Good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people,'" quoted Snape. "ALL people, Harry. And 'Whosoever believeth', Harry. 'Whosoever' is all inclusive."

Harry smiled as his heart lightened.

"I think I'll hang my star now."

The corners of Snape's black eyes crinkled like silver Christmas foil.

Crossing the living room to the corner filled by the softly-glowing evergreen, Harry gently extended the hook from the top of the star ornament and reached as high as he could. Not QUITE high enough, he realized with chagrin. He needed something to stand on…

"Shall I lift you up again?" the mirror inquired rather snidely, but Harry caught a hint of humor in the empty offer.

"Nope. I've got a step-stool." Harry carefully placed the stool just against the lowermost branches of the decorated Christmas tree. The invigorating scent of pine followed him as he mounted the sturdy oaken steps.

"You could always Levitate the star into place," the mirror suggested, ending with a slight snort.

Harry scoffed. "In a pig's eye! This has to be done PROPERLY."

Now, the top of the Christmas tree was within easy reach. Harry stared at the bare green needles on the tallest branch shooting upwards from the trunk itself. His hand, no longer pudgy but narrower and lean, raised the hook toward that highest spot. He paused, the star swinging from the hook, closed his eyes, and the memory filled his mind again.

"Hang a shining star, Harry! Hang a shining star!" His mum, laughing and clapping … the feel of strong hands lifting him way higher than he'd ever been before … and now he could even see his father leaning in the kitchen doorway with multicolored Christmas lights reflecting off his glasses, a reluctant smile twitching his lips as James watched his tiny son putting the crowning touch on their Christmas tree…

Harry opened his eyes, Lily's gay voice still echoing in his mind. He stretched … and he hung the shining star at the very top of the tree.

"I did it, Mum!" he called softly, hoping she could hear him on Christmas Eve. "I hung your shining star! Happy Christmas, Mum and Dad. I love you both."

He heard no reply, but a sensation of gentle warmth quietly enveloped him, far more warmth than he would have felt had someone merely stirred up the embers in the fireplace.

"Mum?" he whispered, holding his breath.

Nothing, but…

The warmth continued to surround him as he turned back to the mirror.

Snape was gone.

After backing down off the step-stool, Harry padded across the rug to the frosty window. Outside, the snow clouds had passed, and in the velvety-black sky, stars shone brightly over Godric's Hollow.

A little way down the cobbled street, the bell on the village church tolled midnight