It was five minutes to midnight when they left.

James shut the door behind him, the click loud in the quiet of the night. Harry was sure that he would always remember the past few days, but that single noise brought it home to him that he would have no further chance to impress the corners and crevices of his parents’ (and his! ) house into his mind.

Their breath puffed clouds into the frosty air, and the few parked cars visible had faint white crystals beginning to form on their windscreens.

It was unspoken, somehow, that they would not be apparating away just yet. Instead, they walked slowly though Godric’s Hollow, all four of them in a row, taking up half the narrow-ish cobbled road: James, then Harry, then Lily, then Snape. Their footsteps echoed in the still night air.  

Harry hadn’t had much of a chance to see the village, having only had the walk to fetch the Christmas tree earlier in the day—though in the time since then it felt almost as if years had passed—and that walk had been taken up with his and Lily’s excited talk, bouncing gaily around a diverse collection of topics.

He’d never know the colour of the shutters on that grand old house in daylight, only in the yellowy-orange flicker of the streetlights; probably, in summertime, that garden would be a riot of colours, yet he would never see it— now, in the chill of winter, it had only bare branches…

His steps were slowing, but the three adults did not hurry him along. Instead, they slowed with him.

A chill breeze whispered past them, resting its cold hand on the nape of Harry’s neck until he adjusted his scarf, fingers catching in a knot of wool. If it were possible, he thought, to stay forever in this moment— cold feet and cold hands, his eyes catching on the shadows that were somehow comforting and friendly, because they were Godric’s Hollow shadows— he would be happy...and it felt almost possible, walking through the still, clear night—

It resonated inside him, chill-cutting night air, wind, cobbles, stars, time, all coalescing together.  The history of it all was overwhelming: the old-fashioned houses where people lived and laughed and slept; the spire and belltower of the church, rising above other buildings on their right, waiting for its parishioners; paths that his parents had walked, that he might have walked with them, if only, if only…

The first toll of the church bell shattered his reverie.

This, Harry knew, was not quite like what Cinderella had been feeling as she rushed away from the castle, in those last long-yet-hurried seconds before midnight, when her with-a-prince-dancing, ballgown-wearing fantasy would all dissolve like spun-sugar... it was close, though.

Magic was like that—it meant that what would have remained as idle, daydreaming fantasy, warming but unachievable, could harden into reality like molten glass cooling into something beautiful but brittle. And when it broke, as was inevitable, the shards and splinters remaining would be sharp enough to draw blood.

Harry did not know how he could bear it. But somehow, he did—when Snape looked at them all, and said, “It is time,” he did not pull away from Lily’s arm as it curled tight around him, as they apparated away from Godric’s Hollow.

The apparition from Godric’s Hollow to the gates of Hogwarts was just as spinny and disorientating as the first time Harry had been apparated, but with Lily’s arm tight around him Harry managed to stay upright, and felt distinctly less queasy than then.

While Snape tapped his wand on the gate to open it, Harry glanced up again at his parents, eyes blurring with tears. 

“No— no, I can’t, can’t just leave you—” 

For what had coalesced in his mind was the realisation that in leaving this world he wasn’t just leaving his parents— as soon as he went back they would cease to exist. It would be them dying, again, except this time it would be Harry’s fault.

“You must,” Lily said, gripping his hand in hers. She raised it up and gently kissed it. “You must, Harry.”

His dad’s eyes were red. “We love you so much, Harry. But we need to let you go.”

“But you’ll die!” Harry shouted at him, wrenching away from James’ hug. “You’ll die and I’ll have killed you! How can I— How can I do that to you?”

The only sound was the creak of the gate as it swung open, rusty hinges complaining. Then Harry’s mother stepped forward. 

“Oh, Harry,” she said, a tear streaking down her cheek. “Harry, we love you too much to let you fade away— too much to keep you here for our own pleasure. I love you enough to know what must be done.”

“I would die for you,” James said, his gaze piercing right through Harry. “I did die for you, it seems. And I’ll always choose that— we couldn’t do anything but choose that. Harry, if you love us, you need to let us make that choice.”

They had made their choice, Harry knew. They’d made it that Halloween night, ten years ago, and they had made it again now. They’d chosen Harry’s life over their own and that was agonising but he understood that choice, because he would do the same for them. And when Snape had shown him Ron’s letter— Harry knew he couldn’t let them all have his life on their conscience. 

So he stepped through the gate, and walked through the snow up to the castle.

At the doorway of the mirror room, Harry paused. But when his mum squeezed his hand, he stepped inside after Snape, his dad following behind.

At first, approaching the mirror, he could see nothing in it, but each step he took closer fuzzy shapes solidified—

And in the mirror he saw Ron sitting on the floor, face pale and red hair unkempt, wearing Harry’s Weasley jumper. Beside him was Hermione. They were leaning into each other, hands entwined.

Above Hermione was Professor McGonagall, her long dark hair not in its customary bun, but trailing over her shoulders— she looked surprisingly young that way. McGonagall was hugging Madam Pomfrey, her arms stroking the shorter woman’s back as she gazed into the mirror. Percy and Fred and George huddled together, the twins’ faces looking strange without their customary grins.

Professor Dumbledore stood there too, looking gravely at Ron and Hermione. Then he glanced up at the mirror, and caught Harry’s eye through the glass. Suddenly the headmaster was smiling, a proud, welcoming smile that was tinged with deep sorrow.

Harry tore his gaze from the sight and turned around. 

“I love you, Mummy, Daddy,” he choked out, almost tripping into a hug with them. They smelt of snow and cinnamon and home.

They hugged him and kissed him, and Lily said, voice wavering, “Aren’t you too old to call me Mummy? But I love you, Harry, to the moon and back.”

“I love you, Harry,” James whispered into Harry’s hair. “And you’ll never be too old to call me Daddy. When you die at a hundred and six, we’ll meet again and it’ll still be right, we’ll still love you. We won’t stop loving you just because we’re not there in person.”

Harry soaked up that last hug, fixing every part of it in his mind to remember forever, then said one last goodbye. Their arms released him and he moved away.

He didn’t look back after that, knowing that he would shatter if he did. Instead, he stepped forward, and touched a fingertip to the mirror.

It was like dipping his hand in a pool of water— it rippled at his touch, silvery and cool. When Harry moved forward and began to walk into the mirror he felt a warm hand at his back, guiding him, and then he was in the silver as it streamed and flowed around him— and it was Snape at his back, he knew, Snape’s hand gently guiding him back out the other side of the mirror, and his parents would never touch him again, but that touch kept him from blurring into the silver and being lost.

And then they stepped out into the room again. It was the same room as the one he’d been in seconds before, except, most vitally, who was in it—

Harry couldn’t breathe, but Ron was squeezing him, and Hermione was too, and McGonagall was crying silently—

And then all of a sudden he was breathing again, crying, great sobs heaving themselves out of him and tears soaking Hermione’s hair. The warmth of his friends’ bodies warmed him, and he gripped onto them tighter than they held him. 

Later, they all somehow were in a different room, one Harry didn’t recognise, but liked, with its cosy hangings and a crackling fire. They were all clustered round that fireplace, as McGonagall melted chunks of dark chocolate in a dented little saucepan and Dumbledore conjured up mismatched mugs, placing them on the mantel.

He wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but Harry was on a couch, squished up between Ron and Hermione, drinking rich hot chocolate that tasted of spice. Ron’s elbow was poking into his side but he found he didn’t care. 

Dumbledore was sitting beside McGonagall, toasting his feet at the fire and answering Percy’s questions about the Wizengamot. Snape was talking softly with Madam Pomfrey about a book they’d both read. Fred and George were taking it in turns to poke at the fire with their wands, turning the sparks different colours: forest-green then aqua then violet then hot pink…

“I’m glad you’re back,” Hermione whispered, curling her fingers round Harry’s.

Harry leaned his head against Ron’s shoulder and squeezed Hermione’s hand. Maybe, he thought, maybe in time it would hurt less. But he knew, though it was painful to admit it, that he’d made the right decision. Knowing what he had, he couldn’t have stayed in that world where it was only around him that people existed. And anyway, what his father had said to him not that long ago was true— just because Harry’s parents were dead didn’t mean their love was worthless. The opposite was true, and they walked with him every step of the way.