It had been a long time since Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, Saviour of the Wizarding World, had attended Hogwarts as a student. And yet it seemed to him that it had been only yesterday that he’d entered the Great Hall for the first time as a nervous and unsure first year to be Sorted, and hoping that he wouldn’t get told it was all a mistake, he didn’t belong there, and he was to be returned to the Dursleys forthwith.

Harry wandered aimlessly through the corridors. Now that their children were all in school, Ginny said they spent almost more time here than they had when they were students themselves, they got called in so often. Harry figured she had a point. James Sirius had inherited the mischievousness of both his namesakes, plus Fred Weasley’s portion, too, and didn’t seem to be able to go a whole week without getting into trouble. Although he wasn’t the only culprit – Lily Eileen had managed more than her fair share of scrapes, too.

This time, though, Harry was here because of Albus Severus. It had been a very long time since Al had done something that warranted a parental conference. The boy had not been Sorted into Slytherin – much to his relief – but neither, to Jamie’s disgust, had he been Sorted into Gryffindor. Instead, he’d been chosen for Ravenclaw.

Harry, of course, didn’t care where he’d gone, as long as he was happy with it. And he supposed it was actually a fair fit. Both Al’s namesakes had enjoyed gathering knowledge of all sorts.

At the moment, the Headmistress was a bit delayed, her secretary had told Harry. (And that was another change – since when did the Headmistress need a secretary? Dumbledore hadn’t had one, despite his various positions. Or then again, considering all the cards he kept to his chest, perhaps he HAD needed one, but just hadn’t trusted anyone enough to give them the position.) So Harry had chosen to go wandering for a bit.

He found himself eventually outside the entrance to the Room of Requirement. The door had abruptly appeared five years after the final battle. As far as anyone could tell, it worked as well as it ever had, but Harry didn’t think it’d be creating anymore passages to the outside world any time soon.

The door shimmered into view, looking plainer than Harry had ever seen it. Curious as to what the Room had decided he needed, he pushed the door open and slowly poked his head in.

It was a small, stone room that looked like an abandoned classroom. Broken chairs and desks were scattered at the edges of the room, as if thrown down and left behind. The corners of the ceiling were obscured by layer upon layer of cobwebs, leaving Harry with the impression the room was surrounded by mist.

The middle of the room was clear, except for a large object standing on its own. The side facing Harry was made of wood, although he could see ornate gold filigree edging the sides of it. Making sure his wand was in easy reach, he tentatively stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

As he edged around the thing, he was suddenly hit by an intense déjà vu. It was a mirror. And not just any mirror. The familiar inscription of Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi curled across the top of the glass.

“The mirror of Erised,” Harry murmured, his hand coming up to brush against the glass, but dropping before he actually touched it. He’d thought it had been destroyed after the debacle with Voldemort and the Philosopher’s Stone. Apparently it had just been moved. But what was it doing back here? Surely the Headmistress wasn’t keeping it in the school again!

About to turn and stalk back to the Headmistress’ office and demand to know what the cursed object was doing here where any child could stumble across it as he had, long ago, Harry hesitated. What would it show him now? His family, still? He thought not – the Weasleys were his family now, and his children.

The curious streak that had gotten him into trouble time and again in his school days reared its head now. Dumbledore had once told him that the happiest man in the world would see only himself in the mirror. Just how happy was Harry? He thought his life was pretty darn good right now, but was there some desire deep in his heart that he wouldn’t let himself recognise?

As hesitantly as if he was approaching Buckbeak for the first time, Harry stepped squarely in front of the mirror. At first, he couldn’t see anything else in it but him, and felt a surge of pride that there was nothing more he secretly desired.

And then a black smudge appeared in the mirror.

Harry blinked at it in surprise. He couldn’t tell what it was, but it was growing bigger with every second. It was growing taller, too. In fact . . . it looked vaguely human-shaped.

It was human-shaped – mainly because it was obviously a person. Harry felt like smacking himself in the head. And then the figure finally got close enough that he could make out details, and his jaw dropped.

Pale skin, limp, stringy black hair, piercing black eyes, sneer-curled lips, flowing black robes.

“P-Pro-Professor S-s-snape?” he stuttered, taking a step back.

The image in the mirror, now recognisably Severus Snape, folded its arms and scowled at him. “Eloquent as always, Potter,” it jeered, surprising Harry again. He hadn’t thought images in the mirror could talk. Certainly his parents never had, and Ron had never mentioned anything when he’d looked into it, either.

“Are you – what are you?” Harry asked, reaching out to touch the mirror’s glass again. The cold hardness of it against his fingertips was reassuring.

“A figment of your desire,” Snape said, and his mouth twisted over the words as if they made him ill.

Harry suddenly realised how that could be taken, and felt ill himself. “Not that kind of desire!” he said, hurriedly. “I’m perfectly happy with Ginny, thank you!” Sighing, his shoulders suddenly slumped. He did know why the mirror had shown him Snape. It was the same reason he visited the Shrieking Shack and the old, run-down park in Spinner’s End.

Snape stared at him for a moment, then raised an enquiring eyebrow. “You obviously know why this mirror is showing me to you,” he said. “Kindly get on with it so I can get back to resting in peace!”

“Are you?” Harry blurted, abruptly, the question just springing out of him. “At peace, I mean?”

“Why do you care, Potter?” Snape asked.

“Because it shouldn’t have happened!” yelled Harry, surprising himself again. Snape just blinked at his vehemence. “This shouldn’t have happened to you,” Harry repeated, softer this time. “You should have been able to see what you were fighting for.”

Snape unfolded his arms, then awkwardly clasped his hands behind his back, looking uncomfortable. “Potter – Harry,” he corrected himself, “I was . . . prepared, for the eventuality.”

“Well, I wasn’t!” Harry snapped back at him.

“I had longer than I expected,” Snape said, after a pause. “I fully expected to be thrown into Azkaban the first time. I fully expected to be immediately slaughtered when the Dark Lord returned. My story had to end sooner or later.”

It should have been later, Harry thought, but the words choked in his throat and he couldn’t get them out.

Snape took a step closer to his side of the glass, and raised his hand as if to place it on Harry’s shoulder. Harry could see the hand resting on his image’s shoulder, but of course, he could feel nothing. Closing his eyes, he swallowed thickly.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, blinking his eyes open again.

“There are so many things you could be referring to,” said Snape, although the jibe wasn’t as sharp as it could have been. “For what in particular, Potter?”

“For—” Calling you a greasy git. For thinking you were trying to kill me when you were risking your life to protect me. For invading your privacy. For injuring you when you came to rescue me from a murderer and a werewolf and the dementors. For calling you a coward. “—everything,” Harry finished, huskily.

There was another pause, and then Snape bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Perhaps you aren’t quite the infernal brat you always were,” he said, and Harry bit back a laugh.

“Thank you,” Harry told him, looking him in the eye. “For everything you did for us.”

The image of Snape began to fade around the edges. “Perhaps, Potter,” he said, his voice taking on a slight echo, “when talking with your youngest son, you may want to mention that he appears to be living up to his namesake. Both of them.”

“I will, Professor,” Harry managed. He turned and made for the door, sure that the Room of Requirement was done with him now. He paused with his hand on the doorknob, and looked back over his shoulder. “Goodbye, Professor Snape.”

The image in the mirror smiled as it faded out of sight.