“Hurry up, Harry!” Hermione said, eyes gleaming. “I can’t wait to see my parents again.”

Harry was stuffing the sweets he’d bought on the train into his satchel hurriedly. He’d left his trunk at Hogwarts. “You can go ahead, Hermione, if you want.”

“No, I want you to meet Mum and Dad— and they’ll want to meet yours. Come on.”

And when he’d finished she took him by the arm and practically dragged him out of the train.

While they were jumping down onto the platform, something flickered into his mind. Harry wobbled and nearly fell sprawling on the ground— hadn’t he been staying at Hogwarts this year with Ron?

No— that couldn’t be right. Why did he think that? He’d just caught the train back to London with Hermione.

And then he was being introduced to the Grangers, who both smiled warmly at him and said they’d heard a lot about him from Hermione’s letters.

Harry smiled back at them and thought how nice they looked— then a cold unease trickled down his spine. Why was he at Kings Cross Station? The Dursleys hadn’t wanted him to spend Christmas with them in Surrey, not at all. They would have been glad to have him remain at school. But he wasn’t at school, so what was going on?

“Harry,” a deep, unfamiliar voice cried. Harry nearly swung around, but knew it must be for someone else— he shoved down the wish that someone would greet him with such enthusiasm and love in their voice. “Harry, I’ve missed you so much!”

Then to his utmost surprise an arm drew him to someone’s chest; a hand ruffled his hair; and he was— he was— he was being hugged.

His glasses were askew from having collided with someone’s chest, but the person hugging him had deep red robes and a warm embrace. When he was released, ready to explain the hugger’s mistake, he stepped back, adjusted his glasses and looked up only to have his mouth fall open.

“Why d’you look so surprised, Harry? You couldn’t have thought we’d forget and leave you sitting on the platform— our only son, abandoned—”

And James Potter— unmistakably, James Potter, took Harry’s satchel from him and slung an arm around his shoulder. The unruly hair, the glasses, the shape of his face— though the nose was different—

“Well, there was that time you got called in on a case and didn’t pick him up from school—” 

Harry swung round, eyes widening even more. It was— it couldn’t be—

“—I was at a conference in Allemagne and the poor child had to wait for hours while they tried to get hold of you, then Sirius, then they finally called Remy—”

“That was years ago— and I apologised for that, didn’t I, Harry? I grovelled, and abased myself, and vowed that would never happen again—”

Harry laughed incredulously, a bit hysterically.

“See, he’s just glad to see us, Lily. Go give her a hug, don’t you—”

And then Harry somehow was hugging his mother, who had eyes like his, and his nose, and had been dead for years. She was warm and soft and her hair flopped over her shoulders to tickle his nose; she didn’t feel dead.

He squeezed her tighter. She didn’t evaporate, or vanish, or tell him coldly he was mistaken: she just hugged him back and gave him a kiss on the forehead.

“Mum,” he whispered. He could feel pressure building in his eyes— any second now he was going to start crying. “Mum.”

“Oh, Harry,” Lily Potter said. “I’ve missed you too. I’d say the house was a lot quieter without you but your dad took it upon himself to fill any silence you left. He and Uncle Sirius are experimenting again.”

Harry didn’t know who this Uncle Sirius was, but he didn’t particularly care. It was his Mum and Dad who mattered, and they were there and this was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

“Why don’t you introduce me to your friend, Harry,” his mother said as he clung like a limpet to her. “We can have another hug back home, I think everyone’ll get cold standing around. Is this Hermione?”

Harry disengaged himself from the hug extremely reluctantly, and said, “Yes, this is Hermione. She’s brilliant.”

And then his parents— his parents — were introducing themselves to the Grangers, and talking about arranging a visit over the break. Hermione came over to Harry, and gave him a quick squeeze of the hand.

“It’s strange, you don’t think about them when they’re not there,” she said. “But now I’m here it suddenly hit me how much I missed them.”

Harry could only nod.

Lily Potter side-along apparated Harry home, though he didn’t know what it was she had done until he was sprawled on chilly cobbles.

“Side-along apparition really never agrees with you, does it?” she said sympathetically. “It should get better when you’re older— but you won’t believe me because I’ve been telling you that for years.”

It seemed he lived in a nice little cottage, with vines trained up the side of the walls. It looked like a rambling rose near the door— Harry was willing to bet it looked spectacular in summertime.

The rest of the afternoon and evening of that day almost blurred together in a wonderful, warm shimmer for Harry. He’d wanted to notice everything, take everything in and remember it all— but it just kept happening and it almost felt like it was slipping through his fingers like sand. If only it were possible to just pause what was happening so he could collect each moment, but it wasn’t. So Harry found himself upstairs, unpacking  in a bedroom that was obviously his (quidditch posters and bookshelves with some kids books and puzzles and a chocolate frog card collection). And then he was in a cosy living room with the fire crackling, toasting marshmallows beside his Dad while his Mum moaned loudly that she didn’t understand how they could eat the sickeningly sweet things. He heard what his Dad had been doing: funny stories about tripping over a disillusioned burglar in the middle of a different case, about the cake he’d made for someone named Remus’s birthday that he’d forgotten to put any sugar in. His Mum had lots of stories too— about her work as an editor of Potions Today , and some lightly sarcastic-sounding ones about ill-thought-out experiments done by Uncle Sirius and Harry’s Dad.

Harry loved to hear them talk, the way their voices drew him into a family he’d never known. He found himself offering up little anecdotes of his own from Hogwarts.

They made dinner together, Harry grating parmesan cheese for a bolognese sauce, and then ate together on the ground next to the fire once more.

“I’ll clear off the dining table tomorrow,” James promised. “Once I get home from work. It’ll be my last day for the year, Harry, cause I wheedled my way out of any holiday shifts.”

Harry could only grin.

At half-past nine he lay in bed, fingers rubbing the soft blanket covering him. If this was a dream, then maybe going to sleep would make him wake up— and he did not want that. He just wanted it to go on and on... So he tried to keep awake, pinching himself whenever his eyes drifted shut. But by ten o’clock or so sleep had gotten the better of him and he drifted away to dream of mirrors and snitches and melted marshmallows.

The next day Harry pinched himself a few minutes after waking up, to make sure he wasn’t sleeping. But astonishingly, he wasn’t . It was true— he was in his own room, and if he was here then downstairs were his parents .

He rushed through dressing— though he did have time to note that he had a whole dresser full of clothes that fit — and went down the stairs two at a time. And in the kitchen, scrambling eggs, was his mother. Her ponytail swung a bit as she stirred.

“Harr—”

He collided with her in a hug and she let out an oomph .

“Yes, I’m still here,” she laughed, ruffling his hair. “Trying to get all your hugs in before you go back to school?”

Harry nodded into her chest, though he didn’t know how he would be able to bear leaving them, even to go to Hogwarts. Before yesterday, he would’ve said that Hogwarts was his home— now it paled in comparison to this .

“I love you,” he said, smiling up at her. She had a mole beneath her ear, and when she grinned her nose crinkled.

“Love you too, Harry. Do you want tomatoes with this?”

His Dad had already gone off to work, but spending time with his mother was amazing. They went on a walk outside after she hung coat, scarf and beanie on him, and she pointed out her favourite trees and how the frost on the ground made even the bitumen sparkle. 

“I think it’s meant to snow tonight,” she added.

When they got back they made hot chocolate with real chocolate melted into it. Every sip Harry took was rich, creamy, and warming.

Then they hauled out some boxes of Christmas decorations from the attic, which was cramped and spidery. Harry saw that when Lily Potter sneezed, it was loud and jerked her head around. 

“We wanted to wait to decorate so you could join in,” his Mum said, getting out a handkerchief. “Gah— should have vanished the dust first.”

Harry giggled. 

There was a potted fir tree that was just chest high on Harry that they lugged inside together, needles brushing his face when Lily tripped on a step. They placed it in the corner of the living room.

“Are we going to wait for Dad?” Harry asked.

“He’ll do the lights when he gets home, Harry, and we’ll do the tree.”

So Harry and his mother looped tinsel and bells round the tree, then placed the ornaments on. Some of them were clearly hand-made: a delicate crocheted santa, for example, or gold-painted pine-cones— and there were lots that looked like a child had made them.

“Oh, I remember this,” Lily said fondly, pulling out a reindeer face made out of a brown-painted paper plate, googly eyes and pipe-cleaner antlers. The paint was streaky and the googly eyes had been put on lopsidedly. “You were in year three, and I’d been able to get time off to come in and help with the Christmas crafts at your primary school. You wouldn’t let me see until you were all finished, just kept trying to hide it with your arm so it would be a surprise gift for me.”

Harry looked at the reindeer face and wished he was able to remember that. Living with the Dursleys, they hadn’t usually seen the point of having Harry at school in the final days of term just to do crafts— after all, there was a lot of preparation needed for Christmas to be just perfect for Dudley, so Harry had never really gotten to do Christmas crafts. Aunt Petunia had taken the ones Dudley gave her and cooed over them, then taken them up to her room rather than put them on the tree that was intended to impress the neighbours, strategically placed in front of the window as it was.

He was glad that this tree didn’t look anything like the Dursley’s one— it was a lot more individualised than that. And once Lily had opened the second box of ornaments, it became clear that this would be magical . 

Inside Harry a muddle of feelings made him unsure whether he was to laugh or grin or cry. As he cradled a tiny prancing reindeer statue, it pawed gently at his thumb and blew out a huff of breath; Harry was smiling and sure he could never be happier.

After the tree, they had some lunch, then baked and iced gingerbread, and each took several with them to nibble on while relaxing in the living room. Lily nibbled a little of an iced star every time she turned a page of The Town in Bloom while Harry dismembered gingerbread-people, making sure to lick his fingers free from stickiness before he moved a piece of the puzzle he was doing.

When James got home he was singing.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas

Let your heart be light

From now on

Our troubles will be out of sight

He flung open the door with a flourish and bowed to the astonished Harry when he concluded the verse.

“Oh, go get in your home clothes, you big drama queen,” Lily said, shooing him away with a flap of her book. But Harry could tell that she found it funny from the way the corners of her eyes crinkled.

They had pot-pies for dinner, and told Harry what would be happening over the holidays.

“Sirius and Remus are coming over for Christmas Eve with Marlene and Aubrey,” James said. “But Sirius kept saying he couldn’t wait until then, he needed to see his almost-nephew before that, so him and Remus’ll be round tomorrow arvo too.”

Harry’s mum rolled her eyes. “If he tries to show you his latest experiment, stand well back, because there’s been green slime explosions going on.”

“We’ve fixed that! Well, nearly…”

“And on Christmas we’ll have lunch with your Dad’s parents,” Lily said. “But Boxing Day with mine is off because Petunia’s in Majorca and Mum’s just had a hip replacement. So you won’t need to see Dudley this time, don’t worry.”

Harry was glad she’d said that: he didn’t need to conceal the massive grin at that.

“And—”

Rat-a-tat-tat .

Lily broke off, frowning. 

“Who could that be?” asked Harry’s Dad. “If it’s Rosaline asking for another cup of sugar…”

Lily laughed and swatted at her husband. “She’s got a crush on you, you silly thing. No-one could possibly run out of baking ingredients that often.”

But James grinned mischievously at her, and Harry gaped a little when he said, “No, Lils, she’s got a crush on you — remember that time with the carrot cake?”

And Lily went bright red. “I thought you’d forgotten that,” she hissed. 

James was laughing. “On me— she only comes round when you’re here, and, and—”

Looking back and forth between them, Harry decided he didn’t really want to know. “I’ll get the door, shall I?” he said, standing up.

“Thanks, Harry— and when she gave you that necklace !”

As he left the room and walked to the front door, his parents’ laughter echoed around him.

The doorknob was cold, and his fingers slipped when he turned the key. A waft of cold air entered the house as he pushed the door open. 

“Hi, how can I—” he stopped, stomach dropping. This certainly wasn’t Rosaline . No, even though he hadn’t met the woman, he was sure she didn’t wear long black robes with myriads of buttons— she wouldn’t have shoulder-length dark hair, or a hooked nose— or—

—or look exactly like—

“Mister Potter,” Professor Snape said, eyes looking Harry up and down. “May I come in?”

Harry opened and shut his mouth a few times, but couldn’t find any words. Snape was wiping his shoes on the mat— it said Welcome in thick black letters— and then he was walking into the house past Harry.

Why was the man here ? It didn’t look like he’d come to borrow a cup of sugar… But, but, did Snape know his parents? He must, or why would he be here—

“Harry?” Came his mother’s voice, getting louder as she got nearer. “Harry, who was it— oh, Severus!”

Harry stood frozen, flicking his gaze between his mum and Snape. His mum did know Snape, enough to call him by his first name— and Snape—

Snape was very still, too, for a too-long moment, but then he said, “Lily.” And then he smiled .

“You didn’t say you were coming! But— oh, take that cloak off, it’s sopping.” She strode over to Harry’s potions teacher and somehow divested him of his outer layer, hanging it on a coat-hook. “Come in, we’d just finished dinner— tea? Hot chocolate?”

Then Lily was ushering Snape into the living room, but Harry was still unmoving. He didn’t think he was capable of motion in his shock. But when his mum called out to ask if he was coming or if he wanted to stand in the doorway all night, he found his legs moving.

In the living room, Snape was sitting in an armchair reading the back of the book Lily’s mum had been engrossed in that afternoon. Harry was extremely aware of the man’s presence as he walked in and sat himself as far from his teacher as he could get, on a pouffe. 

“Thank you,” he heard. There was the sound of china mugs being placed on a table.

Then— “Harry, come over here,” his mother said. Slowly, Harry walked over. She pulled him down next to her on the couch, and kept her arm around his shoulder. Harry couldn’t look at Snape— this was too strange, worlds colliding like cold water to the face— so he kept his gaze on the steaming mugs on the table. There was a plate of gingerbread next to them.

“Feeling lonely, Severus?” his mum said cheerily, picking up her mug of tea.

“I need to speak with you about something, Lily,” his potions teacher said. “This is not a social visit. Is your— your husband around?”

Lily waved a hand. “Yes— have some gingerbread, you look half-starved. Harry and I made it this afternoon.”

And Harry watched as Professor Snape picked up one of Harry’s gingerbread men and dipped it in his tea.

“Severus!” said Harry’s dad, walking into the room. “Here’s that book I was telling you about last time we met.” He tossed it over to Snape.

“Hmm,” Snape said, turning it over in his hands. “Thank you.” He put the book beside him then clasped his hands in his lap. “If you would take a seat, please, Mr Potter.”

Harry looked at the man for a second, confused, before he realised that he was referring to his father.

“Mister Potter?” said James. “What’s the occasion?” He sat down on the other side of Lily, and slung his arm around her. “Don’t think you’ve called me that before. Has Lucius Malfoy been hounding you about etiquette or something?”

“No.” Snape picked up his mug of tea again and twisted it in his hands. If Harry hadn’t known better, he would have said the man looked rather uncomfortable. “What do I usually call you, out of interest?”

Lily leaned forward. “Severus, are you well?” she asked, sliding her wand out of her sleeve. 

Snape gave an odd laugh. “Oh, I am perfectly well,” he said. “It is your son who is not.”

“Harry?” Lily asked, confused. “What on earth are you talking about?”

Harry’s dad now had his wand pointed at Snape. “A security question, if you would,” he said. “Forgive me if it is you, but I need to check. Who is Lily’s niece?”

Whipping his head round, Harry stared at his father. A niece ? 

Snape laughed that odd laugh again. “Petunia has only a boy— a boy settled with the lovely name of Dudley, and a personality to suit it. Unless you have a sibling hidden away somewhere there is no niece.”

How did Snape know Aunt Petunia and Dudley?

James lowered his wand. “Severus, are you sure you’re alright?” he asked. “You’re acting awfully strangely. You haven’t had a potions accident, have you?”

The corners of Snape’s mouth curled up in a strange smile. “No,” he said. Then he took his wand out of his sleeve and rolled it across the table to Lily, who picked it up slowly.

“What’s going on, Severus?” she asked. 

Harry thought that was a very good question.

“Oh, nothing much,” Harry’s potions teacher said. “Just the small matter of your son having been absorbed into an enchanted artefact. As I said, this is not a social visit.” He leaned forward and looked Harry straight in the eye. “The Mirror of Erised is nothing to play around with.”

Harry stiffened, suddenly cold. The Mirror — he’d been looking at the mirror at night, under his invisibility cloak— the cloak that Dumbledore had given him for Christmas— but it wasn’t Christmas yet, it was Christmas Eve in a few days, so it hadn’t been Christmas yet—

And he’d just ignored it all, apart from a few concerns that first day, because really this was a dream come true, being with his parents. They had been dead, and it had been the week after Christmas, but then it had been the start of the Christmas hols, and his parents were alive…

“What’s happened?” Harry asked urgently. “ What’s happened? ”

“Yes, Severus,” Lily said, tightening her hand on Harry’s. “What has happened? Harry seems fine to me.”

“How shall I put it?” Snape murmured, eyes still pinning Harry to his seat. “Hmm. Well. You’re imaginary, Lily. And you, Mr Potter. Or do I call you James, here? Strange, that. But in any case, neither of you truly exist. You’ve been dead for ten years.”

Beside him, Harry felt his mother turn to look at James, but he couldn’t stop staring at Snape. A pressure was building behind his eyes; that Snape had walked in and said that was like two different worlds colliding. It couldn’t be true, could it? They were right here, beside him. They had been dead, yes, but now they weren’t and Harry didn’t know why it was like this now, but it wasn’t a bad thing, was it? It was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

“I assure you, we’re alive,” James said. He held out his arm then pinched it, watching the red mark fade away. “I would have noticed if I were a vampire.”

“Really, Severus,” Lily said. “I’m getting quite concerned. Would you come along to St Mungo’s with me? I know you keep saying you’re fine, but—”

“It’s true,” Snape insisted. “I appreciate your concern, and knew it would be hard for you to believe, but it is true. They’re dead, aren’t they, Harry? ”

And Harry burst into tears.

The world was blurred and shaking because Harry was shaking, shaking as he cried, though he could hear perfectly well.

“Get out!” James yelled. “Go on, Severus, leave! I don’t know what this is about— some kind of joke in bad taste— but you’ve gone too far. Gods forfend, I thought you were better than this!”

Lily wasn’t sitting beside Harry anymore— she’d moved to kneel down in front of him, clasping his hands. “Harry, Harry my love, what’s wrong?”

“Snape’s right,” Harry bawled. “He’s right, you’re dead , I’m sorry, I’m sorry —”

“ What ,” Lily hissed, voice cold. “Severus. Explain, right now.” She raised Harry to his feet then shuffled them around so she could sit down on the couch with him on her lap. Harry curled into her, clutching her shirt, head pounding. She was warm, and real, and everything was wonderful and awful.

“It was Halloween, 1981,” Snape said softly. “The Dark Lord.”

Harry felt his mother stiffen at the word. “Sev—”

“I’ve never made you a Christmas decoration,” Harry managed to whisper into her neck, in between huge sniffs. “I haven’t. And I didn’t— didn’t know you hated marshmallows. Cause I don’t remember you.” He felt her hand tighten on his back, and his tears started up again. “They told me it was a car crash, and I didn’t know til I got to Hogwarts.”

“Shh, Harry,” his mum whispered. “Shh, it’s alright. I’m here.”

She was, wasn’t she? She was dead, but she was here and alive as well. Harry swallowed the last of his tears and twisted a bit, so that he could see Snape and his father. 

“Sit down, please, Mister Pot— James,” Snape said quietly. As James slowly eased himself down the potions professor met their eyes, then began. “In 1981 the Dark Lord murdered you both and met his demise. Harry survived, and went to live with Petunia. In his first year at Hogwarts he encountered the Mirror of Erised, and began wandering the castle at all hours of the night to look into it and see his long-lost parents.” The man picked up his mug and took a sip of tea, then continued. “His friend Ronald Weasley warned him against it; Professor Dumbledore counselled caution and informed him that people have wasted away gazing into it. But Potter kept going, and the Mirror kept sinking its hooks into him, until what was dream and what was reality blurred for him, and the Mirror caught him. He’s gazing into it now, trapped inside a world built from his own head, slowly wasting away.”

And with that Snape leaned back and drank some more tea.

“Severus— that’s quite a story,” Lily said, her voice betraying her shock. “Um.”

“That was after Christmas,” Harry said, hoarsely. “It’s before Christmas now.”

It was, wasn’t it? How could all this be his imagination? They were real— he’d hugged them and cooked dinner with them; they’d talked about people and things he didn’t know.

“Professor,” he said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, “I don’t get it. They are real. It can’t be true— it can’t, because how would I know to think up all the details? I don’t— don’t remember anything.”

“The Mirror of Erised is a very powerful artefact,” Snape said. “It can find events and people in your mind that you cannot remember consciously— events from the first year of your life, and then extrapolate from them. But we foresaw this. I have a letter for you, Mister Potter.”

He reached into his robe and pulled out a scroll of parchment, then handed it to Harry. 

Dear Harry, it read.

“It’s from Ron,” Harry said, glancing up at his mum. “It’s from Ron.” The scrawl was unmistakable.

“I have a note for you two from Dumbledore as well,” he heard Snape say. But he didn’t care about that— he was reading his letter.

Dear Harry,

I don’t know how to write this. It’s strange, writing to you like I can’t just talk to you. I mean, I could talk to you, but you wouldn’t reply. You can’t. 

It’s so stupid, because you’re right there. A bit faded round the edges, and you look really ill, kind of hollow if that makes sense, but your there.

Dumbledore asked me to write this letter. He told me that you would get it, though I don’t know. He wanted Hermione to do one too, but she only came back an hour ago and has been too upset. McGonagall fetched her after we realised what had happened. 

When I woke up yesterday, you weren’t in the dorm. I thought you’d gone to breakfast early, but you weren’t there. I looked for you in lots of places til I realised about the mirror, I should have remembered I don’t know why I didn’t. But then I went to the mirror and you were there, but you weren’t moving and all pale. I said Harry and you didn’t move, then I touched you and you were very cold and my hand felt like it almost went through you. You didn’t move even then. I waited a minute and tried again then went to get McGonagall.

Harry I don’t know what to say but I hope you come back. Dumbledore said you were in the mirror now, in the mirror’s world and it would make you very happy in there but its not real Harry. I think your going to die  You look very sick and I’m scared because you can’t eat anything and you’re actually going all fuzzy its like the mirror is eating you.

Ron.

PS this is me I know the mirror gives you what you want so you might not believe it but it is. So I’ll put in this bit: Malfoy Midnight Neville Hermione Peeves Dog. You should remember. I was going to put what I saw in the mirror but don’t want anyone reading it, though it had to do with badges.

Harry rolled the parchment back up and clutched it to his chest. “Alright,” he said hoarsely. He had known something strange was going on, but it had just been so wonderful… He didn’t want to believe Ron’s letter, but Ron would never lie to him. “But how’re you here?”

Lily and James looked up from the letter they were perusing at that. 

“Yes, Severus, how are you here?” James asked. 

“Legilimency,” Snape said.

Lily’s mouth fell open. “Oh,” she said. “Really— I should have known.”

“What’s legi-legilo-le—”

“It is a complex and mysterious art generally initiated through eye contact, allowing me to penetrate through the layers—”

“He’s reading your mind, Harry,” Lily said. “Pretty much, anyway.”

On his face, Snape’s lip was curling in a way that revealed his annoyance at being cut off. But he didn’t say anything.

If Snape was reading his mind, right now, then did he know what Harry was thinking?

“No,” Snape said briskly. “No, Potter, I don’t.”

Harry stared at him. This was unconvincing in the extreme. “But you just did!” he said loudly. “You— you just did!”

James and Lily were looking curiously at the both of them, now, as Snape let out an exasperated sigh. “Everyone always wonders if I’m doing it when they learn about it, Potter. But rest assured, I have no desire to trawl through the mundanities of your thought process. It is not a skill I ordinarily use.”

Eying him suspiciously, Harry wasn’t convinced the man was telling the truth. Then, remembering that he’d said it was done by eye contact, he averted his gaze.

A chime sounded through the cottage, emanating from Snape’s right wrist. The man pulled up his sleeve and grimaced slightly at the device strapped to him. It was a bit like a watch, if a watch had several hands and three faces. 

“I have to leave in a minute or two,” Snape said, looking from Lily to James. “Extended legilimency is not… beneficial, to either me or the legilimised. Albus and I have allowed for two visits, five hours apart. That left us with a little extra time, just in case…”

Harry’s mum and dad looked at each other, communicating silently, then James said, “Come over here a minute, Harry.”

Glancing up at his mum, who nodded, Harry walked over to his dad. James guided him over to the corner of the room. 

“Harry,” he said seriously, “I need you to tell me if this is true, about that mirror.”

Harry nodded, miserably. 

“This is important, Harry,” James said, running a hand through his hair. “You must say it out loud.”

“Yes,” he said reluctantly. “It’s true. It was Christmas last week, at school, and— and— I was going each night to look at it. To look at you. And the letter’s definitely from Ron.”

Saying it out loud somehow made it more real to him, and it was clear that the confirmation affected his dad as well.

“Oh, Harry,” James said, holding out his arms. Harry fell into them, unable to say anything, his throat choked up. No more tears fell, but that was only because he had none left to shed after earlier. 

They stayed like that for a bit, then Harry’s dad steered them back over to Snape and Lily. His mum was looking grave but determined, and Snape had a pensive look on his face. It was clear that the conversation between them while Harry had been over with his dad had given them both much to think on.

“Lily, James,” Snape said, inclining his head to both of them. After a second’s hesitation, “Harry. Until my return.”

“Severus,” Lily said. James nodded, and Harry made himself look over at the man. Then after another second, the man disappeared. There was no crack, like when Harry had been apparated— the man was simply there one moment and gone the next.

“Well,” Lily said, eyes on the place Snape had been, “If I had any more doubts of his using legilimency right now, that would have stopped them.”

After Snape had left, Harry’s parents took him upstairs to his room.

“Your father and I need to talk about this,” Lily told him as Harry sat on his bed. “Try to go to sleep for a bit, darling.”

Harry stared at her. Go to sleep! After all that had happened, and with Snape coming back in a few hours, and while they were going to be talking about him! He wouldn’t be able to— and anyway, he didn’t want to. If they were going to be talking about him and the Mirror, surely he should be there.

“But I—” he began.

“He won’t be able to, Lily,” James said. “Let me just go get something to help you, Harry.” He walked out of the room. 

The bed creaked as Lily sat down on it, next to Harry. “It’s been a long day,” she said.

It was only around half-past seven. Harry said so.

“Well, it doesn’t feel like it,” his mother said. “Now, I know you probably want to hear what we’ll be talking about, but this conversation is going to be an adult one. I promise we’ll tell you anything you need to know, Harry.”

“I— alright,” Harry said, resigning himself. It really wasn’t fair, but adults never really were, and he shouldn’t have expected his parents to be the exception. 

When James re-entered the room, he was holding a tiny crystal vial. It was filled with a deep green substance.

“This’ll do the trick,” he said, handing it to Harry. “Had it leftover from my last overtime case.”

Harry tilted it and watched the light glimmer off the facets of the crystal. “What is it?”

“Compressed sleeping potion,” James said. “Gives you five hours of sleep for every hour you manage to snatch. You’re not meant to take it very often, of course, because it’s highly addictive, but I’ll just give you enough for half-an-hour. It’s not like you’ve ever taken any before, have you?” he asked.

“No,” Harry said. 

“Well, it’s not like you’ll be able to get your hands on it easily, it’s prescription only, but make sure not to take any more of it in the next half a year or so.”

Harry’s parents tucked him in and kissed him, then James handed him the vial. “One sip,” he advised.

The potion had barely touched his lips before the waking world drifted away, cloud-like.

Harry was roused by his mum shaking him gently, half-an-hour later. 

“Wake up, Harry,” she said. When he squirmed himself up into a sitting position, she handed him his glasses. “Everyone’ll be arriving, soon.”

“Everyone?” Harry asked, muzzily.

“We’re moving up Christmas,” Lily told him. “Your dad is floo-calling— well, lots of people. There’s a good four hours of celebration we want to get through.”

Were they not going to talk about what Snape had said? Why had they decided to have— what, a party?

“Huh?” Harry said, standing up. 

“Severus will arrive around midnight,” she said. “We’ll talk more about the situation then, Harry, but we wanted you to have a Christmas with us.” 

Harry was guided down the staircase by her warm hand on his back.

Downstairs, James was using his wand to hoist fairy lights all over the living room. 

“Sleep well, Harry?” he asked, flicking his wand so that the string of lights secured itself to the curtain rod.

“Erm,” Harry said. Questions were bubbling around inside his head, but he didn’t really have the words to express them properly. “I don’t get it. We’re having a party?”

James gave his wand one last flourish, then slipped it into his pocket and turned to face Harry, face serious. 

“Yes, we’re having a party,” he said. “Well, a Christmas gathering. I know this might seem a bit out-of-place, Harry, but your mother and I have thought this through. You haven’t had a Christmas with us, have you?”

Harry shook his head. “Well, no, but—”

“Then you should have as much of one as we can manage before you have to go,” his father said. “Wasn’t that what you were thinking, before? I’m sure it was. C’mere.”

He hugged Harry, ruffling his hair. 

Harry had wanted it all to just keep going, before, hadn’t he? But if they were moving everything forward, then his mum and dad must think they’d have to send him back…

“I do want a Christmas with you,” Harry spoke into his dad’s chest. “But I was already having one, wasn’t I? You’re just going to send me back, with him. ”

James said nothing. 

“Aren’t you?” Harry said, suddenly angry. “You are! But I’m not leaving you— I can’t. I won’t !”

“Harry—”

“I can’t just leave you behind!” Harry shouted, hands balled into fists. He was entirely awake now, thrumming with emotions and energies he could not name. 

He pulled away from his dad, unable to bear the comforting touch anymore. 

“It’s not—”

“Shut up!” Harry yelled. And then, unable to bear it any longer, he ran out of the room, back up the stairs, back into his room, and slammed the door.

The quidditch posters on the wall stared him down, a reminder that this wasn’t really his room. Harry reached up and tore one down. He stared at it in his hands then ripped it in half, beheading Josef Wronski.

Immediately after he had done that, he wished he hadn’t. Wronski was staring at him dolefully, and the Montrose Magpies eyed him balefully from their own poster. Harry crumpled up the torn paper and dropped it to the floor. 

He couldn’t stay in this room– it was a lie, such a lie, and what had made him exceedingly happy only a day or two ago now reminded him that none of it really was his– they wouldn’t let it be his.

His father found him in the tiny study ten minutes later. Harry was drawing circles on the floor with a finger, watching the individual strands of the carpet move under his touch.

“I’m sorry,” James said. He squished himself next to the desk, sitting down beside Harry. “I didn’t handle that well.”

Harry didn’t say anything, but the next circle went widdershins instead of clockwise.

“You couldn’t know,” James went on softly, “But my father died when I was fifteen.”

Harry hadn’t known– and– 

He whipped his head up and glared at his Dad. “But Mum said we were going to have Christmas with your parents,” he said accusingly.

“My mum and my step-father,” James said. “She married Nicodemus a few weeks after I turned twenty. He’s a nice bloke, and they love each other. But— well— I wanted you to know.”

Harry dropped his eyes to the carpet again, and began a spiralling pattern.

“It was dragon-pox,” James said. “If you’re young when you get it, then you get over it quickly. But my father wasn’t young– he and your Gran were quite old when they had me. There were complications, and it killed him.  And for ages afterward, I was hurting so much that I just wanted to make other people hurt too.”

His finger pausing in its pattern, Harry doubted that his father could feel so cruel.

“But my mum told me something that stopped that. She said, ‘Just because he is gone now, doesn’t mean he was never there.’ I told her that she was being stupid, of course I knew that.” He gave a little scoff. “I didn’t, really. I was so focussed on what my Dad would miss out on that I didn’t care about all the times he had been there. 

“From what Severus said about the mirror, none of this could have happened if we hadn’t been there, in your heart– if your subconscious memories hadn’t been buried at the bottom of your brain. We were still with you, Harry. We still will be with you. And now you’ll be able to remember us, here and now.” James reached out a cautious hand and rested it on Harry’s shoulder; Harry didn’t shrug it off.

“It’ll hurt,” James said, his voice choking a little. Harry shifted, turning to look at him, and noticed a tear rolling its way slowly down his Dad’s cheek. “Of course it will hurt. You’ll probably hate us, for a bit, and I wouldn’t blame you for that. But Harry, we couldn’t let you stay. Not knowing what would happen to you in the real world.”

“But,” Harry said quietly. “This is real, too. You’re real.” Then, a panic threading under his voice, “No— don’t cry—”

For his father truly was crying, now. It was a noiseless sorrow that cut deep slashes into Harry, making him feel smaller than usual.

James reached over, and traced Harry’s face with a gentle hand.

“I know this is no consolation,” he said. “But we love you so, so much. And that is why we cannot allow you to stay. You see that, don’t you, Harry?”

There was a hollowness in Harry’s stomach now, and he wished he could cry, for he felt in need of it. But all his tears had been used already that day.

“I think I do,” he said, hesitantly. It had been the way that his father had looked at him– like Harry was the bright-burning filament in the stars and the sun, mysterious and beautiful and wonderful–

Harry knew what it was like to feel that way about someone– he’d known ever since he stepped foot off the Hogwarts Express and seen them–

He would have done anything to save them, to know them and to uncover more of who they really were.... The way Lily Potter left bookmarks all over the cottage so that she wouldn’t find herself without one in the middle of a book; the way that James Potter tilted his head up when he sang…

It was knowing this that lead to the unwanted knowledge inside him that if he did love them, he would have to let them save him. This small maturity was sat in his stomach, cold and lumpen, like ill-cooked porridge.

A little later, there was a soft tap on the door, and Harry’s mum came in, holding something that was wrapped in brown paper. The study was small enough that with Harry and James sitting on the ground, there wasn’t much room left, but James shifted over, then Harry did too. She squeezed herself next to them, knees at her chest to take up less room.

It was a bit like a hug, Harry thought, sitting so close together.

Once Lily had folded herself into her position, the package was handed to Harry. The brown paper was tied with a gold ribbon. 

“This is for you, Harry,” she said. “I don’t— well— we want you to open it. It’s from both of us.” 

A glimpse of colour, then Harry unfolded the rest of the paper and found a multicoloured knitted scarf, clearly homemade.

“We made it together,” his mum said. “After you left on the train at the start of the year, I needed to do something with my hands. So I started this.”

Harry lifted it up and held it against his cheek. It was very soft.

“I did tell her you’d be a Gryffindor, but your mum insisted we didn’t know for sure, so she put in all the house colours,” James told him. 

Lily gave his dad a little shove.

“Harry would have done well in any house,” she said. “And it could never be mistaken for anyone else’s, either, could it?”

It could not. The first quarter of it was in thin stripes, alternating the different house colours—red and green and blue and yellow— then the rest was red and gold.

“I did that section,” James said, pointing at part of the scarf where the red wool looked particularly snarled. “Isn’t it great? But I think I’m more of an embroiderer.”

“I love it,” Harry said, honestly. This was the first present he’d ever gotten from his parents, and they’d made it themselves. He tangled his fingers in the bright wool. “Thank you.” He wound it round his neck, and once it was on his mum tugged it a little to adjust it. 

“There,” she said. 

Then they all walked downstairs together.

Somehow, the fairy lights glimmering round the front room made everything feel warmer and cosier. The curtains were drawn, and the fire on the hearth crackled cheerfully, flickering light on James’ face as he used the poker to shift a large log into a better position.

“I’d step back if I were you,” Lily told him. 

Harry’s dad glanced at his watch, and after leaning the poker against the wall did as she said, helping her move an armchair closer to the side of the room.

When the fire flared green, Harry saw it out of the corner of his eye. He whipped his head round to look at it. 

“Wha—”

And then there were people stepping out of the fireplace.

“Floo powder, love,” his mum said absently. She was moving a pile of paperback books off the coffee table. “Lets you travel through the fireplace.” Pulling her wand out, she waved it and sent the books flying through the air out of the room. “Come over here and meet some people. Hey! Remus!”

A mild-looking, brown-haired man walked over, smiling. “Hi Lily, Harry,” he said. “How was school? You can lie to Sirius if he asks if you used those fireworks, you know— 

“Harry’d never lie to me!” A dark-haired man turned around, then strode over and rested his head on top of Harry’s, hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Would you, kid? I bet those fireworks were great.”

“Err,” Harry said uncomfortably. The man’s actions were that of someone very familiar and close with him, but Harry had never met him in his life. “Um—”

Would it be weird if he told this Sirius person to get off him? He should, shouldn’t he?

But then Remus took care of it for him. 

“Get off him, you idiot,” he said, pushing at Sirius. “He’s obviously uncomfortable. Don’t you remember what James said about him getting hit by some kind of amnesia charm?”

“Oh,” the man said, moving away. Then, affably, “But how could you forget me, Harry? I, Sirius Black, am your godfather— and unforgettable!”

“Sometimes I do try very hard to forget you, Black,” called out a woman. She’d been speaking with Harry’s dad on the other side of the room. “But I can’t seem to scrub the image of you streaking down the Gryffindor stairs when you were thirteen.”

“Shut it, Alice,” Sirius yelled back. But he was grinning, a wide, open grin that made his eyes sparkle and dance. Harry decided then that he liked him, even if he didn’t remember him at all. 

Although at first it had seemed like a lot of people in the room to Harry, after an hour or two that was no longer the case. Somehow, in that short period of time, he’d gotten to know several of these people— his parent’s friends— very well. 

There was Remus, who asked lots of questions about Hogwarts and told them all a funny story about his encounter with a grindylow; Sirius, physically affectionate with everyone and laughing a lot; Alice, a smile always on her lips, who had told them her husband was staying with a flu-y Neville... Quiet Hestia seemed to have been brought along by her partner, the bubbly Marlene; quick-tongued Dorcas enchanted baubles to follow around Caradoc, who performed muggle magic tricks complete with flourishes and bad acting.

Someone had set up a record-player in the corner an hour or so in, and there was dancing— Harry was swirled around by Sirius, dipped by Marlene, and (embarrassingly) found himself demonstrating the hokey-pokey for a confused but rather delighted Caradoc. He sat by the fire with Alice when a slower song started, to watch his parents sway in slow-dance together and listen absently to her story. She was telling him in a confidential tone about the joke Christmas present she’d bought for  Sirius— “Last year he gave us an inflatable unicorn—” when Marlene danced with Hestia in front of them, gently dipping her, blocking Harry’s view of James and Lily. 

Marlene and Hestia moved away, swaying to the soft music, then Harry heard no more of what Alice was saying. Now he could see his parents gently kissing— then they parted, and there was a thin trail running down Lily’s face. She turned, and the tear-track glimmered silver when it caught the light.

“Oh,” Alice said softly. She stood up, and took Harry’s hand in hers, walking him over to his mum. “Lily, are you alright?”

Lily smiled a terrible smile. It was joyous and sad and wearied and peaceful, all at the same time. 

“Yes,” she said. “It’s only that it’s Christmas. And Harry is here, and James, and you, and everyone else— and there is almost too much love in me, Alice. I’m overfull with it. That’s all.”

There was a hug, then, and Harry found himself in between Alice and Lily, a little squished. It was kind of nice, though.

Caradoc left at eleven, Dorcas a few minutes later; Marlene and Hestia spun away in green flames at quarter past.

“Spose I’d better get this one back,” Sirius said, nodding at Remus. The other man was asleep on the couch, head resting tilted against the back of the seat. “C’mon, you.” 

He hauled Remus up into an upright position— Remus murmured a little and his eyelids fluttered— then staggered off towards the fireplace. 

“Still up?” Alice asked Harry amusedly.

The potion that his father had given Harry earlier meant that he was still wide awake, though it was a little after half-past eleven at this point. 

“I feel like I could stay up til morning,” he admitted. When he saw Alice’s shocked face, he added quickly, “I had a long nap this afternoon.”

That was pretty much true.

“Well, I hope all you kids aren’t usually up at the wee hours of the morning at Hogwarts,” Alice said, smiling. “Poor Neville— I thought it was because of his flu that he was sleeping so much— but maybe he’s just making up for never having slept at school.”

She stood up and walked over to the gramophone in the corner.  “Remus would be embarrassed to be outlasted by an eleven-year-old, if it wasn’t Remus.” The music— a soft and rather scratchy rendition of Celestina Warbeck’s Twenty-eight enchanted candles— stopped when she lifted the stylus off.

Harry’s dad laughed. “Remus never gets embarrassed— I think he’s actually incapable of it.”

Rolling her eyes, Lily said, “I think he does a bit, whenever he gets complimented— but he’s good at hiding it. Never gets all blustery like Sirius does.”

Alice picked up the record with nimble fingers and slid it back in its case. “I’ll just take this back—”

“Oh, is that yours,” Harry’s dad said. “I didn’t think we’d gotten any Warbeck—”

“Yes, it’s mine,” Alice replied tartly. “Well— Frank’s. But he’s not here to take it back, is he? He reminded me about it before I left, said, gee, Alice, get that Celestina record back from James— I lent it to him months ago and I think he’s forgotten it wasn’t his. ”

James made a face. “Well, tell Frank that—”

“Yes, yes,” Alice said, waving a hand in dismissal. “I’ll make something up, don’t bother. I should probably be off, too.”

“Bye, Alice,” Lily said. “And thank you.”

“Goodbye,” Harry said.

 “You make sure to have a lovely Christmas, Harry. And don’t let James eat all the pudding,” Alice said, taking a pinch of glittery green powder. But before she could throw it on the flames they heard the knock at the door.

“Bit late for visitors, isn’t is?” Alice remarked. 

While Lily went to answer the door, and James said something about the caller being expected, it was an issue of magical ritual timing, you know, Harry’s stomach felt like a large stone had dropped into it. 

It wasn’t as if he’d been able to forget, not really, but hearing Snape’s knock jarred him. A glance at the clock showed that it was quarter to twelve: Harry could almost feel the minutes and seconds falling through his fingers like fine-grain sand.

When Snape and Lily came into the room, there was an odd silence. Snape was looking at Alice, and though Harry wasn’t quite sure what it was, there was something about it that suggested it wasn’t an ordinary kind of looking. Harry would remember this moment years later, and think with a rush of sorrow and understanding, of course. But then Snape closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them again his face was aloof and blank.

Alice was looking at him too, curiously, then shrugged, throwing in the floo powder. It was clear that she’d decided what he was doing there was none of her business. 

“Well, I’d best go home to Neville and Fred,” she said. “Goodbye, everyone. And Merry Christmas.”

She stepped into the fireplace and was gone as the flames flashed viridian.

“Home to Neville,” Snape said, seemingly to himself. The fire was returning to a more usual colour now. “Yes, she’d best be home to Neville.”

And after a few minutes of quiet, serious talking, they knew that it was time for Harry to be home, too. Not home in this cottage, with its cheery warmth— but home to the real world of the Christmas holidays at Hogwarts, because of the lonely truth that Harry’s parents had been dead for years.

In the end, as Lily said, it came down to trust. 

Harry’s parents trusted Snape when he told them Harry had been enchanted by the Mirror of Erised… they trusted him when he said that their world was created using Harry’s dormant memories from when he was only a baby, and that they had been murdered by Voldemort in the Autumn of 1981. Harry didn’t like Snape, not really— but his parents trusted him, and Harry trusted his parents with a conviction so strong it burned.

Harry trusted Ron; he knew Ron’s way of writing, and knew that Ron was the one who had written the letter to him. Harry trusted Ron, and he knew that Ron was telling the truth when he wrote that Harry was looking less alive every day, wasting away in front of the mirror. Ron would never lie to Harry about that.

Lily and James trusted Harry— they had faith in him, and believed he was telling the truth when he admitted he’d lived years and years knowing them to be dead.

And Harry— most awfully— Harry trusted himself. It left him with a hollow, sick feeling in his chest, but Harry trusted himself enough to know that something clearly was wrong with the fortuitous and miraculous resurrection of his long-dead parents. He wasn’t quite able to deceive himself into believing that everything was fine, and that Snape and Ron’s letter were just hoaxes, and that Harry could just keep on living with his mum and dad and everything would be fine… much as he would have liked to.

So Harry looked at his parents, fixing them in his memory: the way the firelight played off their skin, the curl of Lily’s hair and the sheer wildness of his dad’s… how they seemed just absolutely right, here in their cottage in Godric’s Hollow. He tangled his fingers in the soft, warm wool of the scarf they’d given him, reassurance of the strength of their love.

They would be leaving soon, he knew. But this moment— listening to the soft crackle of the dying fire and just being able to see his parents live and well—right now, it was perfect.

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.

Several days later, Harry was called into Professor McGonagall’s study.

“How are you feeling, Potter?” she asked sympathetically. “Hot chocolate?”

“Err, I’m alright, I guess,” Harry said. He settled on the couch she gestured him to, feet swinging. “Thanks!”

He watched as she flicked her wand to summon her dented little saucepan, then broke chunks of chocolate into it and added some cinnamon.

Ron and Hermione had been keeping to his side pretty well, which meant he was less likely to have time to dwell on what had happened. Instead he’d been involved in many snowball fights, built a snow fort, snow-witches and a snow-troll, visited Hagrid, played with Fang, and read lots of books in the hope of learning more about Nicolas Flamel. 

It was only really at night that the loneliness hit him, hard. Madam Pomfrey had prescribed him dreamless sleep, but he was only allowed to take it every second day, because it was addictive. Snape had been there when she’d handed over the first dose, and had told an extremely dark and terrifyingly graphic story of a wizard who’d overdosed on dreamless sleep and ended up narcoleptic, prone to involuntarily falling asleep at the wrong time. The wizard also suffered from terrible nightmares because the amount of potion he’d taken had worked so his body was actually incapable of creating anything but a fear response when asleep.

 Hermione, who’d been with him, had clutched his hand when Snape described some of the nightmares the man had suffered, and gave a gasp when Snape revealed the man had died after he’d accidentally fallen asleep while levitating a couch over his head trying to move it upstairs. She’d made him promise to be careful, though since Madam Pomfrey made him come to the hospital wing for each dose he thought both she and Snape were being a bit silly. 

“Would you stir this while I get the milk?” Professor McGonagall asked, holding out the saucepan. Harry slid off the couch and held it over the fire, stirring absent-mindedly.

He didn’t feel so alone, though, once Ron and Hermione had started sleeping beside him. They’d brought mattresses down from their dormies, and blankets and lots of pillows, and thus slept in a heap on the common room floor. If it hadn’t still been holidays, it would never have been accepted, but they and the rest of the Weasleys were the only Gryffindors staying. Harry wasn’t looking forward to the day after tomorrow, when all the students would return and they’d have to move it all back.

“Careful, Harry!” McGonagall said, bustling over with a beaker of milk. He’d been tilting the saucepan sideways. 

“Oops,” Harry said, straightening it. Luckily none of the contents had fallen. 

“I always lose myself in the flames, too,” Professor McGonagall said, contemplatively. They both watched the flickering tendrils of flame for a few seconds, then McGonagall asked him to hold out the saucepan.

She poured the milk in while Harry kept stirring.

The porcelain cup Harry drank his chocolate out of had a gold-chased rim. There was a small chip near the handle.  He took a sip, and the chocolate was rich and hot and filling.

“Now, I wanted to see how you were going, but I also have something to discuss with you,” McGonagall said, warming her hands on her cup. “You’re not in trouble— and it isn’t urgent, really, but I thought it ought to be talked about sooner rather than later.”

Harry eyed her curiously. He had no idea what she was talking about. Surely if McGonagall had discovered that they knew about the third-floor corridor and Flamel she would have called all three of them in— and they probably would have been in trouble. 

“What do you mean?” he asked. “We’ll move all the bedding and stuff back up to the dorms before everyone gets back—”

“No, it’s not about that,” McGonagall said, a smile curling her lips. “I trust that Percy would see to that even if you three didn’t yourselves. It’s— hmm, it’s, well, rather more a sensitive topic than that. I wanted to talk with you about your aunt and uncle. About the Dursleys.” 

Harry, who had been taking a sip of hot chocolate, spat it back into his cup in surprise. 

“Sorry— sorry”, he said, red-faced. He wiped at his mouth with his hand. “I— oh. What about them?”

He was suddenly very aware that McGonagall was looking at him quite closely. Under her scrutiny, his cheeks heated up and he felt very small. 

“I visited them, that week,” McGonagall said. “Professor Dumbledore, Madam Pomfrey and I agreed that your family should be with you, in case—” she blinked rapidly, then took a gulp of hot chocolate. “My visit raised several concerns.”

Harry could guess what had happened. Clearly the Dursleys had refused to come, even after they’d most likely been told he was dying. He could just see Uncle Vernon gesturing wildly with a glass of wine in hand, face red— he’d say that since Hogwarts had taken him for the year, it was their own fault if he went and died on them, good riddance to bad rubbish.

“Oh,” he said quietly. “They don’t much like magic.”

It looked like Professor McGonagall was restraining herself from saying something very cutting about the Dursleys. She did a loud sniff and pursed her lips.

“That,” she said eventually, “seems to be the least of it. But in any case, I heard enough and saw enough in that visit… You won’t be going back there, Harry.”

He was nearly too busy imagining with dread what she might have heard to understand that last sentence.

“What?” he blurted out. That couldn’t possibly be true. Could it?

“You won’t be going back there,” Professor McGonagall repeated. “It’s a long while to the summer holidays, but I can say that for certain, Harry.”

A slow, cautious smile began to make its way onto Harry’s face. “Really?” he asked.

“Yes,” Professor McGonagall told him, a smile on her own face. “It isn’t yet settled where you will go for the summer, but you can be assured your wants and needs will be taken into consideration. As Gryffindor Head of House, I already was held in loco parentis for the year— and for now I have been named guardian on your papers.”

A warm, fluttery feeling took root in Harry’s stomach. This only grew when she said, “So anything you might have wished to talk to a— well, a competent guardian about, please feel free to come to me. Owl, if you wish, or visit— my door is always open. Or if you want some company, or just a place to nap.”

Something about the way she was looking at him, tender and warm and just a little shy of his response, made him flash back to how she had looked from inside the mirror, hugging Poppy Pomfrey and waiting for his return. She’d make a good aunt, Harry thought, remembering that. It wouldn’t be hard to be a better aunt than Petunia Dursley, but he was pretty sure that McGonagall wouldn’t just settle for ‘better than Aunt Petunia’.

“Thankyou,” he gasped out, a smile splitting his face. “I will, I will!” 

No more Dursleys! And there was this tentative, fragile new thing before them, too…

Years later he would look back at this moment, and others, and think just how rich he was in family. But now—

“This couch is very good for naps,” McGonagall said, eyes sparkling. “I’m not surprised. If ever there’s a sleeping cat on it, of course, you have to let them lie— but otherwise it’s free game.”

“Right,” said Harry. “I won’t forget that.”

And he never did.

The End.