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.