Hazel returned to her dormitory in a pensive mood. She was glad Adrian had already gone to bed—it gave her time to think. She laid propped up on her pillows, picture of her mother in hand, invisibility cloak beside her. Never had she felt so close to her parents; it had been a long time since she felt their absence so keenly. This had certainly been an odd Christmas, but the best one she could remember, despite having detention. It was not the presents, but the feeling of loving and being loved.

But then there was Professor Snape. She still didn't know what to make of the man. Just a few hours earlier, she had believed him capable of murder; she now saw that was perhaps unfair. He didn't seem to like her very much, but then, he didn't seem to like anyone at all. He was, at least, not openly cruel to her as he was so many others. She thought she might even be able to like him if he wasn't such a bully to poor souls like Neville.

The more she thought about it, the more thoughtless thinking Professor Snape was the culprit seemed. If he wanted her dead, there had been plenty of opportunities for him to act. If he wanted her dead, he wouldn't get so worked up about her endangering herself. If he wanted her dead, she probably already would be.

A voice very much like Daphne's told her that of course he would deny being the culprit—he was hardly going to confess. They had seen him muttering under his breath, maintaining eye contact with her broom. And the curse had failed when Hermione set him on fire. All of it logically pointed to Professor Snape.

But Hazel wasn't the most logical person; she trusted her instincts, and they were screaming that Hermione and Daphne had somehow gotten it wrong. Being a bit creepy and dark didn't mean he was a murderer. And he had been…decent…to her where he was cruel to others. He didn't have to put her on the Quidditch team. More, he was the first adult to ever show an interest in her safety. She didn't exactly trust him, but she didn't distrust him either, even if he wouldn't share his suspicions as to who was trying to kill her.

She had to know who had tried to throw her off her broom, and how. That meant researching curses, which meant the Restricted Section.

She slipped under her father's invisibility cloak. She thought about waking Adrian, taking him with her for protection; he would think it a grand adventure. But she was no coward—the cloak would provide her with all the protection she needed, and it felt right, undertaking her first bout of rule-breaking under the cloak alone. She took light steps across the dormitory, into the common room, and out the door.

It was exhilarating, breaking rules.

She walked as fast as she dared in the dark, knowing better than to light her wand. She wasn't sure what would happen if she cast the Wand-Lighting Charm under her cloak, if it would be visible to only her or if her cloak would emanate a strange glow. Now wasn't the time to find out, not when Mrs. Norris or Filch might be about. She doubted Christmas would keep them from prowling the halls.

Soon enough, she arrived at the library. The familiar room looked different in the dark—no torches were lit, no students fretted over open books. The bookcases loomed over her; they were not the holders of friends and knowledge as they were in daylight, but a menacing barrier that obstructed her view. She pulled the cloak closer to her and made her way to the back of the library.

She stepped carefully over the rope separating the Restricted Section from the rest of the library. She made her way towards the books of curses, squinting her eyes to read the titles in the dark. The titles didn't tell her much; the faded gold letterings spoke in pretentious generalities and foreign tongues. She slipped her hand outside the cloak, running her hand over the spines of the books, skipping over the one with a stain that look horribly like blood.

A faint whispering echoed through the room. She walked forward, looking for the source. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Now she knew what those who spoke of feeling magic meant; all these books were alive with something, something dark and fascinating.

She found the culprit on the bottom row. It was an ancient tome of black leather, with silver lettering on the side. She pulled it out with some difficultly—it was quite large and heavy—and rested it on her knee. The Darke Magicks. With a pounding heart, she opened the book.

A piercing, bloodcurdling shriek split the silence—the book, it was screaming! She snapped the book shut, but the scream echoed and echoed in the silence of the night. Then there were footsteps, sounding just outside the library door. With no small amount of panic—Professor Snape would have her in detention for years—she jammed the book back onto the shelf and ran for it. She passed Filch in the doorway, the man's wild eyes looking straight through her. She slipped under his outstretched arm and ran down the corridor, the book's scream still ringing in her ears.

What kind of book screamed? She wasn't sure she wanted to know.

She came to a stop in front of a suit of armor. She had no idea where she was—she had only been focused on getting away. Out of breath, she slumped against the wall. That had been a close call, and her night wasn't over yet. She still had to find her way to the dungeons, which had to be at least six floors below her.

"You asked me to come directly to you, Professor, if anyone was wandering around at night, and somebody's been in the library—Restricted Section."

The blood drained from Hazel's face. Filch must have known a shortcut to where she was, and somehow guessed where she was going, even though she hadn't known herself. His soft, greasy voice was getting nearer.

And to her horror, it was Professor Snape who replied, "The Restricted Section? Well, they can't be far, we'll catch them."

Professor Snape and Filch rounded the corner. She stayed very still, praying they wouldn't come any closer. If they moved even another meter, they would run into her. The cloak wouldn't save her then.

She took one step away from them, then another, as silently as she could. She could have shouted with joy when she reached the door of an empty classroom without them noticing anything. Squeezing through the open door, she let out a sigh of relief. That had been close, very close.

She looked around the classroom. There was nothing particularly special about it. It was neglected in its disuse, covered in dust, filled with desks and chairs, which were pushed to the walls. She stepped over an upturned wastepaper basket, towards what had caught her eye. It was a magnificent mirror, as high as the ceiling, looking very out of place. At the top was an inscription that read: Erised stra ehru oy tube cafru oyt on wohsi.

Curiosity replaced the panic she had felt, now that she was safely away from Filch and Professor Snape. She moved closer to the mirror, her cloak slipping down her shoulders, parting to reveal her worn pajamas underneath. She looked into the mirror, her heart founding furiously, because she saw not herself reflected there, but a crowd of people and a very familiar face.

She reached forward and touched the mirror. The red-headed woman was smiling at her, tears in her eyes. She reached forward to touch the mirror as well. She looked just like Hazel, only with the greenest eyes she had ever seen. "Mum," she whispered. The man in the reflection touched her shoulder. He had dark, messy hair and hazel eyes, just like hers, that twinkled with mischief. "Dad," she said. He nodded, beaming at her.

They just kept smiling at her.

She looked into the other faces in the mirror. She saw other sets of hazel eyes, a woman with dark flames of red hair just like hers and her mum's. A bald old man waved merrily at her—another did a sort of a jig. Hazel couldn't help but smile, for all that she was crying. This was her family. How could she not smile, when they were smiling at her? But how could she not cry, seeing all that she had lost?

The Potter-Evans family smiled and waved and she stared back at them, eager to see more. She would have been quite happy to stand there forever, hand pressed against the glass as if she could touch them, feel them, make them real. There was a powerful ache inside her, half joy, half terrible sadness.

She didn't know how long she had been there, but daylight was peeking through the small window behind her. The mirror did not reflect the light. She knew she couldn't stay—if Professor Snape checked on her and Adrian that morning, as he sometimes had over the holiday, the game would be up. He would know who had been out of bed, and she would be in a world of trouble. She tore her eyes from her mother's beautiful, tearful face and whispered, "I'll come back."

*HP*

"Back again, Severus?"

Dumbledore walked into the room with a weariness Severus had not seen in the man since the war. His head was bowed and his eyes devoid of their usual twinkle. He sat down on a dusty desk and said, "You do not need me to tell you what this mirror is."

Severus, not moving his eyes from the mirror, whispered, "I know."

"Then why are you here, my boy? This mirror gives us neither knowledge or truth, only pain and wanting."

"I know," he repeated dully. "It's not as if what I want could ever happen."

"You see Lily?"

Severus didn't answer.

"You are not the only one I have had to confront this week," he said gently. "Miss Potter has taken a certain liking to the mirror as well."

"What?" he said, still looking into the mirror. "That foolish girl…"

"She came here, desperate for a glimpse of the family she never knew. I find that I cannot fault her for that—not at the inconsiderable age of eleven. But you, my boy? You ought to know the havoc this sort of magic wreaks."

"I know," he said again.

"Yet we cannot always do what is right. I am moving the mirror today, Severus. I ask you do not go looking for it again. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live. Why don't you come to my office? We can discuss Quirrell."

"I'd rather not," he said.

Dumbledore sighed and smiled a sad smile before leaving the room, leaving him to his last precious moments with the mirror.

He looked into the mirror, a tear trickling down his face. The Severus reflected there was not himself. Reflected there was the boy he had been. He looked just as he remembered, dirty-haired and wearing ragged, ill-fitting clothes. Only he was smiling, something he had seldom done as a boy. What reason had there been to smile, when all he had to look forward to was his mother's neglect and his father's fists? What reason was there to smile, but the girl standing beside him?

It was Lily, of course, young and whole. She held boy-Severus's hand and smiled at him, waving to the Severus with her free hand. She was smiling that coy smile of hers, the one that drew people in, the one he had longed to see directed at him again for so many years. The boy-Severus said something, a wry smile on his face, and she tossed her head back and laughed, red-hair blowing in a gentle breeze.

If only he could be a child again with her, he would gladly live through all the pain and suffering that his parents had inflicted upon him. If only he could be a child again, he would not make all the foolish decisions he had. If only he could be a child again, he would not have chosen a futile quest for power and revenge over his only and best friend. If only, if only. He had lost so much, only to gain nothing, and it was all by his own hand.

With shuddering shoulders, he turned his back on the mirror. He composed himself into his usual stony-faced demeanor. This mirror could destroy him, if he let it. Part of him wanted to let it do its magic, let it destroy him. There was no hope for his heart's desire, yet it gave him a cruel, cruel glimpse of it. He did not need to wonder if it could happen. He did not need to wonder what his failing was, why he could not achieve his dream. He already knew.

He didn't deserve her anyway.

He walked away, head bowed.