A.N.: The favourite chapter I've written—I reread the bit from Voldemort's perspective on killing the Potters, and got inspired! Quite morbid, but sweet too, I hope!

Halloween, 1996

She had worked very hard over the last week, while in the hospital wing, to prepare for her Occlumensy lesson, which should have been on Friday, on Monday. Every night she had meditated before sleep, and when double-Divination ended on Monday afternoon, she didn't dread her lesson after dinner. Probably because it had been sausage and mash for dinner, one of her favourite meals, she was in a very good mood as she made her way back down the dungeon corridor to Snape's office. Harriet closed the study door behind her, set her bag on the chair by the door and took out her wand.

"So, we begin where we left off last lesson," he said curtly, taking out his own wand. The Pensieve glowed on the shelf behind him. "Again, you may use your wand to disarm or repel me in any way you can think of. And I shall know if you have not been practicing."

"I have been practicing!" Harriet said indignantly, frowning. Snape gave her a doubtful look.

"We shall see, then," Snape said curtly. "Prepare yourself. Ligilimense."

…Dumbledore was pointing out the tiny crystal orb, inside which something silvery, solid and liquid and gas at the same time swirled around beautifully like a glittering galaxy, on a high shelf just within her reach—He wants Harriet? But…but why, Dumbledore, why? She's…she's our little girl!

The voice hit her with the weight of an earth-shattering wrecking ball and Harriet stared at Snape across the classroom, suddenly as clear to her as her father's voice.

She'd never heard her father's voice with that much clarity before. She had never heard more than a phrase—"Take Harriet and go! Run!" and that was only when the Dementors came far too close…

"What happened there?" Snape asked quietly. Harriet jumped slightly and glanced at the professor.

"What? Oh…" She blinked, feeling her shoulders sagging. "I…I'd only heard his voice once before…"

"We will try again," Snape said curtly. "Focus."

All the practice she had put into it—because Sirius had asked her to—had been wasted. She had heard her father's voice for the first time not attached to her mother's dying screams.

She was too focused on her father when she was hit with Ligilimense. She was so focused on her father that it seemed that every memory that slipped past, slower now, clearer, full of emotion and the senses, contained him, because they were the memories she wanted to see in such exquisite detail. Snape was making her see the memories but she chose their subject content…

She was reaching up her hand, hoping against all laws of physics that if she could just touch the surface of the mirror, she would be able to step through it to her parents on the other side… She was angry, upset and distraught, and numb, flicking her way recklessly through the photograph album Hagrid had made her, to the photograph of her parents' wedding…

"Go on, Harriet, put your face in it!" her father coaxed, and, restrained in her high-chair, Harriet gurgled a happy laugh and launched headfirst into a gooey, sticky, yummy chocolate cake iced with Happy First Birthday Harriet…

She sat on the floor, smiling, very warm, and very happy, gazing in quiet awe as sparkling smoke rings in different, lovely colours, streamed from the tip of her father's wand with tiny, glowing golden bubbles that she tried to grab, giggling softly.

"Pretty, aren't they?" her father chuckled softly, playing with her little foot; she wore a little pink bodysuit with footsies, the one that was very fluffy and warm, and she crawled onto her feet, using her father's denim-clad knee for support; he grinned at her, taking her sides in his large, warm hands, leaning down to kiss her cheeks and blow raspberries, which make her giggle loudly and beam up at her daddy, pressing a hand to his cheek and leaning up to give him a very wet kiss. He grinned, his eyes—eyes that had gold flakes in them, gold like the pretty bubbles he made especially for her baths. She liked her baths—twinkling behind his glasses. She reached for them, and he chuckled softly, taking them off, and she fell down on her bottom with a muffled phush on the soft rug when she put them on upside-down. She laughed softly, lolling back, and she heard her daddy's laugh as she giggled softly, and she blinked when he took his glasses back and lifted her onto his chest, her little hands captured in his big ones, kissing her again.

Lying on his back, he lifted her into the air, letting her soar over him, making her giggle as she writhed, loving the weightlessness. "I give to you…the English National Team's youngest member—POTTER!!" He pretended to cheer and grinned up at her, zooming her around with sound-effects like the whoosh of a broomstick.

"Alright, you two—that's enough of that," said a kind, smiling voice, and Harriet beamed and cooed, glancing over at the little door, where her mother's fiery hair glowed in the lamplight. "It's time for beddy-byes, poppet."

"It's nice to know someone in this house still gets a good night's sleep!" her daddy chuckled darkly. "You were up all night again, weren't you?"

"I'm alright," Lily said softly, smiling, and Harriet held her hand out for her mother, smiling, clamped against her father's waist, fitting snug and warm there, her other hand clenched around his t-shirt.

"Alright, go and take care of Mummy," her daddy whispered to her. "I love you, blossom." He kissed her cheeks and forehead, and she only saw his t-shirt when he leaned in to kiss her mummy. "I love you, too," she heard him murmur, and heard her mother's tiny little chuckle and sigh.

She was transferred into her mother's arms, pouting and gazing longingly over her mother's shoulder as she carried her from the sitting-room, away from her daddy, who was running his hands through her hair, looking tired. She clutched locks of her mother's fiery, fragrant hair in her hands and rested her cheek against her mother's neck, watching her daddy as her mother climbed the stairs. She beamed as he came running into the hallway, but she noticed that the door was open. The door was never open.

"Lily, take Harriet and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off--!" There were pretty green lights, but her mother was running up the stairs, screaming, making noises Harriet used to make, slamming the door of her little bedroom, where her pretty fairy lights twinkled everywhere. Clamped in her mother's arms, her mother started pushing things in front of the door. She was making a den like Puppy did; they were playing a game. Harriet smiled, clutching her mother's sweater, waiting for Daddy to pop in front of them and go 'Boo!' the way he liked to, to make her gurgle loudly with laughter that filled the whole cottage. She beamed when the rocking-chair and the pretty boxes that had her dolls in them burst away from the door, and someone in a long cloak like the ones Dubble-door wore came into the room.

Her mother dipped and left Harriet in her cot; she put her fingers in her mouth and took hold of the corner of her blanket, knowing what that meant. It was time for beddy-byes. She smiled blithely at the person, waiting for Dubble-door to play hide-and-seek with her, gazing past her mother's slender hips.

"Not Harriet—please, not our Harriet."

The voice wasn't Dubble-door's. Harriet didn't like it.

"Stand aside, you silly girl…stand aside, now—"

"Not my Harriet, please, no, take me, kill me instead—"

"This is my last warning—"

"Not Harriet! Please…have mercy…have mercy…not Harriet! Not Harriet! I'll do anything…"

"Stand aside—stand aside, girl—"

Harriet hooked her little fingers around a bar of her cot, and her eyelashes fluttered as a flash of brilliant green light filled the room. This person had made the pretty lights downstairs. Her mother dropped to the floor and stayed there.

She gazed expectantly at Dubble-door, waiting for him to reveal his face and smile at her, his eyes twinkling like stars, and tickle her with his beard.

Her eyes crossed when he pointed his wand between them. She glanced up, swaying slightly, and then she saw…it wasn't Dubble-door.

She didn't like his face.

Her eyes burned, her face twisted, and she let out a small moan, a whimper of longing. Where was her daddy? Why wasn't her mummy getting up? Did she need help, like Harriet sometimes did? She let out a little whimper, tears starting to stream down her face, and sucked hard on her fingers, her hand wrapped around the bar of her cot.

"Avada Kedavra!"

There was another flash of dazzling green light, so bright Harriet fell, so bright it hurt her—hurt her so badly she screamed for her mother, for her father, screamed continuously, screamed to make the hurting stop.

She screamed without knowing where she was; she screamed without feeling the tears that were blurring her vision stream down her face, blinding her, she screamed not knowing she sat bolt upright, terrifying the grown men staring stricken at her. She screamed until her throat was hoarse…

She collapsed against the stone, and knew no more.

When she awoke she didn't know how much later, she still felt the same sickly weakness, the sluggishness and the clamminess that felt like she had the flu but not the fever. She was still lying on the floor, cold and aching, her throat was hoarse and her mouth was full of an unpleasant taste. Her head ached. Slowly, she dragged herself up into a sitting position against the wall, curling up.

What she had seen resurfaced; she saw it all for a second time in echoing detail: she saw her parents fall, and she leaned over, drained and clammy and drenched with cold sweat, the worst she had ever felt, worse even than a hundred Dementors, an unnameable pain, and vomited over the stone floor.

Shivering violently and panting, her stomach riling, she wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her robes and tears streamed freely down her face as she heaved sobs; she pointed her wand, her hand trembling, and panted, "S-s-Scourgify." The vomit disappeared just as a knock on the door sounded and two blurry figures entered the room, one in royal-purple, the other in black trimmed with yellow, accompanied by something enormous, black and furry.

Someone gasped and there were suddenly three sets of footsteps in the room coming from the door: Harriet curled up and cried, reliving her parents' deaths again, her heart breaking every time she remembered her father's smile and her mother's little laugh.

While she cried, she only heard indistinct voices—one fierce and heartbroken, the other quite calm, a third by the door extremely anxious, though there was no quaver of fear in his voice, but not a fourth voice: Snape remained silent, his expression ferociously anguished, white-faced tinged with green, sat in his chair behind the desk, his eyes dark and hollow, haunted, staring at Harriet.

"What has happened here?" Dumbledore asked swiftly: someone knelt down beside Harriet and she jumped and cried when they laid their hands gently on her shoulders.

"Hi, little girl, it's me," Sirius whispered to her, and Harriet cried and groped for his hand, realising she was trembling violently still. Sirius pulled her gently and Harriet navigated into his arms, clinging onto his robes for dear life. She cried until she had cried herself out, used up all her tears. Glad she had worn her glasses, she took them off and wiped her sopping eyes on a wad of her robes.

When she had stopped crying, she was calm enough to face the two other men in the room still standing—Professor Dumbledore, the twinkle in his eyes gone, replaced with a burning glow of concern, and Cedric, who stared from Sirius—as if he half-recognised the face that became more handsome with each passing day, Cedric's face white, his cheeks hollow—to Harriet, his eyes wide.

Professor Dumbledore had moved the Pensieve to Snape's desk—Snape was feeding his memories back into his head, leaving the subtly silvery light within the basin to grow dimmer and darker until there was none at all.

"Harriet, would you permit us to borrow your memory," he asked gently, "so that we may examine what caused the mental lockdown?"

"The…what?" She sniffed and sat up straighter, embarrassed that Cedric had seen her crying so unrestrainedly, catching Sirius' eye, fearful for what Cedric might do or say about having seen Sirius Black embracing Harriet Potter like a daughter. She glanced at Professor Dumbledore, at the concern and wariness etched into every line on his ancient face, and nodded groggily, her head feeling very heavy. "Yeah…yes."

She sat up straighter again, picking up her wand where she'd let it clatter on the floor after reaching for her godfather, and pressed it to her temple, focusing on the glittering multi-coloured smoke-rings in the little cottage's parlour. Even as she thought about it, and took her wand slowly from her temple, she felt the memory slipping away from her; she opened her eyes and watched a strand of silvery thought drift in a breeze that did not exist from the tip of her wand, and reached her arm out to deposit the memory into the empty Pensieve.

"I want it back, after," she said quietly, as the three men turned to the Pensieve—Cedric's expression was wary. Dumbledore nodded slowly, consolingly, and Harriet caught Cedric's eye and tweaked the corner of her mouth in affirmation that it was okay for him to see the memory. Sirius was first to dive in, Cedric followed next after Dumbledore gestured for him to do so, and finally Dumbledore disappeared into Harriet's memory. She felt calmer now, now that she could only vaguely remember the memory of her parents' murders; the full memory was in the Pensieve. She glanced at Snape, who sat at his desk, unspeaking, unable to look up from his hands.

Barely minutes passed, and Sirius staggered to her, weak-kneed and his face shining with tears, taking her in his arms again. She could hear his quiet sobs as he hugged her, and closed her eyes, relishing the feel of being hugged as if by a parent. Sirius was good at those kinds of hugs. Cedric stumbled over to the nearest half-sized filing cabinet and sank onto it, staring with an expression so heart-rending Professor Dumbledore was moved to put a hand on his shoulder. Dumbledore looked solemn for the first time, solemn, the twinkle gone from his forget-me-not eyes, which now seemed a lot darker, stormy.

She didn't care why she had been locked in the memory with Snape. She didn't care why she had acted like the year-old baby she had been when the memory had been made, she didn't care to know why. She just cared that it had happened…she cared that she had seen her parents together, smiling and happy and affectionate, for the first time in her memory, happy, together, alive…if only for a few seconds, before Voldemort came to snuff their lives out like guttering candles.

As soon as Sirius had released her, he dove for Snape: he hoisted him out of his chair behind his desk by the collar of his robes and lifted him clear off his feet to crash him into the shelves behind the desk, sending several apothecary jars smashing on the floor.

"YOU MADE HER WATCH THAT!!" he roared: Snape didn't even fight back as they rolled about on the floor, Sirius trying to punch every part of him he could reach. Only Dumbledore managed to part them; they were both thrown to opposing sides of the room, and Cedric had to leap in between them to stop Sirius having another go: Snape's eyes were blossoming purplish-black, his nose was broken, blood spilling over his mouth, smeared over his cheek which shone fuchsia with the beginnings of a bruise.

Harriet was on her feet, still feeling as if she'd been suffering from stomach flu, but she tugged on the back of Sirius' robes and he glanced over his shoulder at her; his expression relaxed into utmost tenderness and he offered his arm to hold her close to him.

"Sirius, why'd you…?" Harriet moaned softly, peering pleadingly up at her godfather. "You weren't supposed to…might get caught," she mumbled, her eyes filling with hot tears, glancing from Cedric to Snape and back to her godfather.

"I think a good mug of hot cocoa would work wonders here," Professor Dumbledore said softly, and from thin air he drew up—literally, with his wand—several small, squashy armchairs. A silver service appeared on Snape's desk, and as Harriet watched, melted chocolate mixed before her eyes from Professor Dumbledore's wand with hot milk in five large mugs and they each levitated towards one of the five in the room. Sirius sat down and pulled Harriet gently into his lap, holding her gently, his cheek resting against the side of her head. They all took long draughts of hot-chocolate, and it was like Remus was a tangible presence in the room because Harriet was instantly reminded of him, when the sense of great ease swept over her after the first mouthful of hot-chocolate, a wonderful calm that came from detachment; she had the memory back but it was filtering back into all her others.

"From what I saw, Harriet, it appears to me that you allowed yourself to lose control," Dumbledore said quietly. He was not reprimanding, just explaining. "Unintentionally, I am sure, but you allowed Professor Snape to delve too deeply into your memories, and, for a few seconds at least, you were both stuck inside your mind, inside that one, specific memory."

Harriet nodded, not really caring for an explanation.

"…it was an accident," Snape spoke up softly, his voice tremulous, thick with emotion as Harriet had never heard it. "…Didn't mean to…"

They sat in silence for many minutes: Dumbledore was first to finish his hot-chocolate, drinking speculatively, and stood up with a sigh; "I am afraid I must return to my study; there are matters I need to settle…Mr Diggory?"

"Yes sir?"

"I would like to ask you not to repeat what you have witnessed here this evening, not to anyone," Dumbledore said gently. Cedric glanced at Harriet; "Oh, I am sure if Miss Potter feels up to it, you may ask her about what you have seen, but, please, nobody besides her."

"Yes sir," Cedric nodded, and as Dumbledore swept past them to the door, Cedric sipped his hot-chocolate. Snape pulled himself out of his chair and followed Dumbledore, as if following some unvoiced instruction from the headmaster, not minding in the least that three people were still sat in his study amidst his precious Potions ingredients. There was silence again, as Cedric stared at Harriet and Sirius, and Harriet stared at Cedric, and Sirius stared at the Pensieve broodingly.

Finally, Cedric set his empty mug on the silver tray still lingering on Snape's desk. He caught Harriet's eye and sighed heavily. "You're a lot more normal than you should be," he whispered wondrously, gazing at her.

Harriet almost choked on her hot-chocolate. She hadn't expected him to say that, and she hadn't expected to be able to smile so soon after regaining access to that earth-shattering memory. But she emerged from her cocoa-mug grinning, her chin sopping, and she heard Sirius choke on his drink and bark a laugh that was losing its hollowness. Cedric got up slowly, hooking the strap of his bag over his shoulder, and glanced from Harriet to Sirius.

"I…I should probably get back to my common-room," he said, glancing at Sirius again. Harriet could see the questions in his pale-grey eyes, but he was either too polite or still too stunned to voice them. Yet.

She and Sirius were left alone, and it was then that Sirius sighed heavily and glanced at her, his chin resting on her shoulder.

"Tell me what you're thinking," he said gently. Harriet just breathed, staring into space. She chewed on the inside of her cheek and sighed.

"He wanted me to be on the English National Quidditch team," Harriet said softly. Her father called her "blossom" and her mother called her "poppet" and her bedroom had been a lovely rusty pink with cabbage-roses in white plaster making their way up to the little green art-glass chandelier in the middle of the ceiling, inside which glittered fairies; her mother and father had put little sconces on the walls, also illuminated by fairies, that had filled the nursery with warm amber light even during the scary midnight hours. There had been embroidered cushions on the sofa in the parlour and her pram had been an old-fashioned one, and she knew now where she had recognised Poesie, her perfume, from: Her mother had worn it. The scent had billowed in her hair as she had carried Harriet upstairs, up the little staircase lined with photographs, with remnants of the house being lived in on the steps, a blanket, a doll, a basket of yarn, a small pile of washing needing doing just outside the wicker washing-basket at the top of the staircase between the two bedroom doors.

"Your daddy?" Sirius said gently. "Oh, yeah, absolutely. You got your first broom when you were a year old, you know."

"Did I?" Harriet asked, smiling sadly.

"Mm-hmm," Sirius smiled softly. "I bought it for you."

"How'd you know something was wrong down here?" Harriet asked, glancing at her godfather. How had he known she was in trouble? Sirius gave her a long, searching look.

"I heard your scream even before you'd made a sound," he whispered, biting his lip petulantly.

A.N.: Please review and tell me what you think about the memory!