Harry Potter sat on the cold stone floor, his invisibility cloak on the ground beside him, his eyes wide and fixed on the huge mirror that stood before him. It had been a few days, perhaps a week, since Harry had accidentally stumbled upon this room for the first time. The image he had seen when he had looked into the mirror hadn't been what he had expected at all,

Instead of seeing nothing but a skinny boy with broken glasses and unruly black hair, he saw himself surrounded by other people, people who, although he didn't know them, looked strangely familiar, like something out of a dream. ON one side of the mirror, there was a dark haired man, also with glasses, who seemed like a larger version of Harry himself, albeit not as skinny, and with hazel eyes instead of green.

Behind the man, there were dozens more people, old and young, who all seemed quite happy and content in each other's company. They were all smiling at him, some out of freckled faces with hair the color of pumpkins, some past hair as black as his own.

And, standing beside him, with one hand on his shoulder, was a beautiful woman with thick red hair, a kind, open smile, and piercing green eyes. Very familiar green eyes. Then, in a flash, the words he had heard so many times since he had entered this strange new world entered his mind: "You have your mother's eyes"

Harry's breath caught in his chest. It couldn't be…could it? His mother was dead, he knew that. She had been dead ever since he had been a year old! But deep down, Harry knew that this woman, somehow, was his mother. It wasn't reason or logic, just pure instinct, but Harry knew his instincts were almost always right. Then, the man, he realized, must be his father! Harry looked back at him, surprise etched onto his face.

He couldn't believe it. All those years fantasizing about what his parents had been like, and now here they were, right in front of him, their faces close enough to touch.

Harry walked up to the mirror, and pressed his fingers to its smooth, cool metal. Harry traced the outline of his father's face, and then of his mothers, trying to brand the images irremovably onto his memory.

Every night since, he had come here, under the safety of his invisibility cloak, just to gaze into his parents' faces, to see their hands resting gently on the "mirror-Harry"s shoulders.

As Harry lay there on the cold floor, he told his parents everything he could think to talk about, about Dudley, about school, about how wonderful it was to be at Hogwarts. He made up stories to tell them, imagining that his parents were still alive to hear them, that at any minute they would emerge from their glass prison and pull their son into an embrace.

To Harry, the strangest part of the whole situation was that when he showed the mirror to Ron, Ron hadn't been able to see Harry's parents. He had just seen himself, experiencing the glory and recognition he had always craved. Much as this had confused Harry, it hadn't diverted him from spending all his nighttime hours entranced by the mirror.

Harry sighed, a sad, resigned sigh. After all these nights, he almost felt like he knew these people in some strange way, but it made him sad to think of how well he could, have known them, if only they had lived.

His mother could have kissed him every night and tucked him into bed. His father could have been the one to teach him to ride a broomstick. Not for the first time in the last week, a tear trickled down Harry's face. He wiped it away, annoyed with himself for crying so easily.

'I wish he hadn't killed them!' Harry thought angrily. 'I wish I hadn't had to live with the Dursleys!' He knew it was stupid, but this was the first time he had really thought about what it really would have been like to live with his parents, never really known what could have been until he saw their faces.

"I wish I could have known them!" Harry's voice was low and hard, barely above a whisper, but Harry was still a bit surprised that he had actually given voice to his thought. Suddenly, Harry heard behind him a soft rustle, like that of robes shifting slightly.

Harry froze. Slowly, Harry turned around, silently willing his heart to stop beating so bloody loudly. If Harry had been nervous a few moments ago, he was terrified now. He was now standing face to face with a man with oily black hair and what seemed to be a personal vendetta against Harry, a man named Severus Snape. Harry was dead; he was sure of it. It might be a good idea to start digging his own grave. Harry was quite sure that his face now bore a look of outright terror. Maybe he had actually been petrified, Harry thought. It certainly felt like that.

But one thing struck Harry as..well…strange. Snape's eyes, so often narrowed in disgust towards him, weren't even directed at Harry. Instead, Snape was staring straight into the depths of the mirror. He was, if it was possible, paler than usual, and he looked to Harry like he had seen a ghost.

"Go to bed, Mr. Potter," Snape hissed. His words were as icy as always, but the words seemed to lack their usual malice.

Not wanting to remain in Snape's presence any longer than necessary, Harry obliged willingly. Only sheer willpower combined with stubborn pride stopped Harry from sprinting madly toward the door. He really must be dreaming! Snape hadn't given him a detention, or even taken points.

Just when Harry had reached the door, Snape's voice from behind his back stopped him cold.

"Mr. Potter, the mirror will be moved as of tomorrow, and I strongly suggest to you that you do not try to find it. It shows you only your deepest desire, and not a shred of truth," Snape spat bitterly. "Stronger men than you have gone mad staring into it's depths."

He seemed to be finished speaking, and so Harry hurried away. But has he did, Harry could of sworn he heard a voice, silky, smooth, and barely above a whisper.

:"I'm sorry."