Hidden Truth

11. Drawing Closer Circles

Hermione woke up early with a terrible aching back. Added to her normal PMS syndromes, she didn't feel too well. The Common Room was empty safe of her; no surprise there, as it was only around 5 a.m. Even though, it was so early, Hermione couldn't go back to sleep anymore, her whole body ached dully every time she tried to turn around and she felt sore, although she didn't move at all. The fire had died down considerably, but it was enough to keep her warm. She groaned, as she sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the couch. Smiling, she folded the blanket that one of her best friends had given her, proving once again that she could rely on them, no matter what nor when. Hugging herself as she made her way to the showers, Hermione longed for Draco. Ever since cruel destiny, or rather, Voldemort had ripped him away from her, she had wanted to turn back time, to get him back, to even hear him again. Now that she had indeed heard him, even felt him once more, Hermione felt elated. The rational part of her mind was shut down, telling her that Draco was dead, telling her that he was no more alive than a magical painting. But Hermione only accepted the advantages of Draco being the ghost he now was; or would be. She would hear him, would be able to even touch him; even though, she had no idea how that worked. Normally, ghosts weren't supposed to be able to feel and touch, they were mere souls, trapped between life and death, not belonging fully to one side anymore.

Hermione shrugged this all off as unimportant. Hagrid's parents, after all, couldn't have been more different. What could one possibly say against the relationship of her and a ghost? It was the Wizarding World, after all, such incredible things happened at a daily basis, didn't they?

After a long, refreshing shower, Hermione headed to Dumbledore's office. Feeling a bit drained after having used magic the day before, she walked briskly, not being aware of the pair of invisible eyes, following her every step.

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Harry hadn't slept as much as Hermione, and when Hypnos had let him finally gracefully into his sanctuary, Harry had been haunted by alien memories, rushing through his mind, disordering his own thoughts. Each time, he had jerked awake, not knowing where he was immediately and why exactly he dreamt about being Snape. In fact, it was a bit unnerving. Why would Harry fantasize about being his hated Potions Master? He'd rather be anyone else; Ron, Neville, heck, even being Hermione would be better.

Shuddering, Harry pulled the sheets tighter around his body, thinking about why he really had those dreams, those ... Harry frowned, as he recalled the conversation with Dumbledore the other day. He was positive that the headmaster had tried to hint that Snape had indeed gotten more memories back than intended in the first place. Maybe those memories were the dreams Harry had had this night. But this would mean also that there indeed existed some sort of link between Snape and himself. Ugh. So much for not wanting to be Snape. Try as he might, though, the unwanted memories wouldn't stay in the back of his mind, and Harry's head busied itself with interpretations.

The first memory had shown Snape brewing a potion in some murky dungeon, definitely not at Hogwarts, though. And even though, Harry had not only seen the rooms and Snape, he somehow could hear Severus' thoughts, too, hearing in his own head, as if they were his own. Hadn't it been such a freaking thing, Harry would have been thoroughly mesmerized at how complicated Snape's mind worked. How could the greasy git concentrate on brewing Veritaserum as if it were the simplest Cheering Potion and in the same time thinking about Lucius and Voldemort and what they were talking about behind his back?

Hermione had once told them about how extremely intelligent individuals thought in seemingly impossible ways, seeing patterns in the most incredulous riddles, connecting apparently randomly taken thoughts. Harry couldn't help but be awed at how Snape seemed to absolutely play everything that he knew about a potion ingredient in his mind, and he never lost track of how many stirs he still had left. Not that Harry was envious, each his own.

'Lucius Malfoy,' a soft voice had whispered into his ear and Snape had immediately known that the blond had talked about him. Was this why Snape was always so paranoid? Maybe it was some kind of psychological malfunction, heightening his already innate suspicious nature. Or maybe this was some sort of premonition? Maybe Snape knew in fact always when someone planned something behind his back?

'This would really explain some things,' Harry mused. 'And it must be cool ... Knowing when someone talks about me behind my back. Then again, maybe not, when you look how Snape seems to cope with it ... I wonder if he knows I think about him now? Probably thinks I'm planning something to spite him ...'

The second memory had left Harry slightly speechless. Snape had looked so ... Harry would have used the word 'sweet' if the boy in the memory hadn't displayed such a temper, reminding him of the moody Potions Master of his present. This memory had been even more intriguing than the first, as Harry could not only watch and see everything, but also read Snape and Danae's mind, experiencing their emotions.

Danae Snape. She had looked so little like Severus that Harry would have never guessed that the two of them could be possibly related if it weren't for the fact that Danae had felt motherly for Severus; Harry knew immediately of their connection, even before the first words were spoken.

It was an open secret that Hogwarts' Potions Master couldn't compete with Witch Weekley's Smile of the Year winners. Harry snorted. Snape versus Lockhardt - Who was the most wanted bachelor? What a difficult choice. Harry frowned. Lockhardt was an empty, vain shell and Snape was a sadistic, ugly bastard. It would indeed be a difficult choice. If there would be such a competition, if Harry would have to chose ... That was so beside the point. Back to the topic.

Severus ugly, Danae beautiful. Harry wondered fleetingly how his Potions Master would look with hair as bright red as his mother's. Would he wear red robes or still black one's? Red and black. Definitely the colours of the devil.

Snape must look more like his father.

'How must he have looked like?' Harry thought. Like Snape? That'd just be gruesome. Someone with Snape's features procreating was just plain cruel. Maybe Snape senior just passed on his looking's, though, but not his character features. Danae hadn't seemed like the woman that would cope with someone with the temper of the present Snape.

Severus' mother had surely experienced enough in her life, and Harry wondered if she was still alive. He could sympathize with her; being trapped in a confining space by one's own relatives was something he could understand only too well, unfortunately.

Harry pitied it somehow that Severus' father obviously had died so early, no-one deserved to lose his parents at such a young age. Snape's stepfather didn't seem to be the boy's favourite person. What indeed irked Harry, was that although Danae's second husband had been Severus' stepfather, his name had been Snape. And Danae didn't seem to have two surnames as it would have been usual with multiple marriages. Could it have been that Danae's first and second husband had both been Snape's?

Harry shuddered, disgusted. Definitely too many Snape's for his liking.

The sun peeked slowly over the horizon, as the other night's memories held Harry in their wake. Too much Snape in there as well. Peeks and glimpses into a life Harry had never wanted to get to know. Too sad, too heart wrenching. And Harry had almost thought that all the bad things only happened to him. He could understand, even if just a bit, how it must feel being Snape with all his impossible quirks, his life-long grudges. Harry couldn't afford developing such a personality; even though, he had also experienced enough in his short life. Some-when, Snape had taken the wrong road.

Harry would take the right one. He got up, changed quickly into his robes and left the dorm; Ron was still slumbering away quietly. The couch in front of the fireplace was empty, he noticed, Hermione was already up or she went to her own bed.

Harry strode quickly through the hallways, his mind already at Dumbledore's office. The headmaster probably had already a cup of tea and cookies waiting for him; or maybe only the tea.

"Joining the early birds, Potter?" a cold voice asked suddenly, causing Harry to stop dead in his tracks, icy chills racing up his spine. "Or why are you already roaming the school?"

Harry rolled his eyes, then turned around and came face to chest ... the boy was still too small. He craned his neck to look Snape in the face. The Potions Master did this on purpose; so much was clear. As if he wasn't already tall enough, the nearer he stood, the more intimidating he appeared in all his black bat glory. Harry didn't even flinch as he saw the hatred Snape's eyes radiated, instead he felt an overwhelming surge of pity. But the Gryffindor didn't show it, the Potions Master wouldn't appreciate it, he knew.

"I was just ..." Harry started, but then stopped abruptly. Was it a wise choice to tell Snape that he wanted to the headmaster? Snape mustn't know about the link.

"What, pray tell, were you just?" Snape snarled. "Wasting my time?"

"Taking a walk," Harry responded, frowning. "I couldn't sleep, if you must know, so I decided to take a walk."

"I forgot," Snape scowled. "Hogwarts is the personal stage for our dear celebrity. And even though every other student is bright enough - however barely - to grasp the concept of a curfew, you seem always to be the exception of the rule, don't you? How ... Gryffindor of you. You didn't even waste one thought that you could get caught, did you?"

"There is nothing wrong with being a Gryffindor," Harry said through gritted teeth. "We are at least honourable. Ring any bells?" He couldn't help but add the last part, even though, he regretted it instantly afterwards. Don't you ever dare put Gryffindors over Slytherin. "But Slytherin isn't bad, either," he added immediately, considering the fact that he almost ended there in his Sorting.

"Indeed," Snape growled, his confusion partially obvious. Why would Potter say something good about Slytherin? That just sounded strange out of his mouth. "Not that you would have any traits necessary to get into my house, Potter," he smirked. "Your qualities end where mine begin."

"Wha-? I'll have you know that the Sorting Hat wanted to put me into Slytherin House! I begged not to get there!" Harry blurted out, indignantly, before he could stop himself.

Snape took an involuntary step backwards, caught off guard. "As I said," he sneered, regaining his composure partly. "No sense of when you should hold your tongue. Now back to your tower before I take off 100 points of your house of choice for being out after curfew."

"The curfew ended five minutes ago."

"20 points from Gryffindor for talking back! Now out of my sight before it will be 50 more!"

Harry fled back to the Common Room, suddenly not so keen anymore on talking to Dumbledore. The headmaster wouldn't know about his memories, so what? He wouldn't risk it to let the information get to Snape. Harry couldn't get rid of the nagging feeling that Dumbledore would let Snape know if he thought it necessary, he had also given Harry hints. Conniving old man. He didn't break a promise, but information flowed, nonetheless. Sometimes, Harry thought that Dumbledore knew too much for their all good. It was unsettling that the headmaster seemingly knew almost everything, that he controlled and nudged people in directions, but never too obviously; almost like one imagined a god would do. Dumbledore a god? Yes, a sugar-addicted, twinkle-eyed god. How very disturbing.

Harry couldn't believe that he had let it slip that he could have get sorted into Slytherin, to Snape of all people, no less.

'Brilliant,' he praised himself, ironically. 'Bloody brilliant.'

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Snape had waited till Potter was out of sight, scowling fiercely. How dare that daft brat walk around like he owned the place? How dare he talk back to him? And how dare he have enough Slytherin traits to be considered into HIS house?!

Snape propped himself up against the cool wall as he was overcome with dizziness.

"No," he protested, weakly, before he went back into his teen years.

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Eleven years old and far too many eyes resting on him. Severus shifted uncomfortably and prayed that the Sorting would be over soon. The trip with the Hogwarts Express alone had been hell, already had he make fiends with Black, Potter and Lupin. What a promising start. Black, Lupin and Potter got sorted into Gryffindor. Shouldn't they be the nice guys? How could these bullies have Gryffindor traits then? Finally, it was Snape's turn for the Sorting.

'Ah,' the voice said inside Severus' head. 'Severus Snape. Much to do. Much to see. Much to change, too. You have a brave and courageous heart and will do good. Why not put you into Gryffindor ...'

'NO!' Snape screamed, noiseless. He couldn't get into the same house as Black and Potter, he wouldn't survive. 'Not Gryffindor! Everywhere but Gryffindor! Please! Ravenclaw or Slytherin, even Hufflepuff. Wait, forget about Hufflepuff ...'

'I see,' the voice seemed to chuckle. 'You seem to know what you want, don't you? You are a survivor and will adept perfectly wherever I put you. You will do good, even though I put you into ...'

"SLYTHERIN!"

12. Lightening The Darkness

"I have the sinking feeling that there is something more going on in the castle than just the Tarantula Spell," Hermione said in her matter-of-factly voice. "Yesterday in one of the bathrooms, the mirror suddenly exploded. I was standing in front of it and it could have made a lot damage if it hadn't been for ... Professor Dumbledore, how does a wizard become a ghost?" She changed the topic abruptly, but the headmaster didn't seem in the least surprised.

"The chances for becoming a ghost are rather slim," Albus explained, a faint twinkling in his eyes. "A witch or a wizard has to have an anchor in this life which hinders him in getting into the afterlife. Sometimes, they have something left to do. But in the most cases the deceased's soul will leave this world even when he has not everything fulfilled."

"Professor," Hermione said, quietly. "I encountered Draco yesterday as a ... ghost."

"Draco Malfoy? Indeed?"

"Yes. He was the one who protected me. Alas, he vanished before he could tell me why the mirror exploded. He said something that he can't stay materialized in this world for too long periods."

"Hm. His soul must adapt to the environment, in a few days his slipping should have subsided, I believe."

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Snape still braced himself against the wall for balance. He had never wanted to be reminded of this little fact again. He a Gryffindor? Ha! Was the pope evangelic? Whatever.

Being nearly made a Gryffindor was nothing for Snape to be proud of. It was a secret, the kind of dirty little secret one used to hide between porn and buried corpses in one's closet. Not that Snape had porn to hide in the first place. Or corpses. Or corpses he used for sick pleasures simple porn couldn't provide ...

This was the simple direction his morbid thoughts went when combining his own name and Gryffindor House in one sentence. Nothing good could ever come out of this. Potter was the living example. Thinking of Potter (as if his mere presence at Hogwarts wouldn't be enough already, Snape really had to think about him, too?), Snape couldn't help but wonder how in the name of all Good and Justice he could have been considered a Slytherin. Even if he let all the cunning traits aside, Potter was no pureblood. And Salazar Slytherin prided himself in his pure and untainted house. There was no way the Sorting Hat could have suggested Harry into his house, unless ... Potter lied. It wouldn't be too far-fetched, naturally. But his entire behaviour after he'd slipped the info spoke against this theory. He seemed shocked and angry at himself for acting so Gryffindor, opening mouth before considering the potential consequences.

Harry Potter couldn't have been sorted into Slytherin because he was a half-blood. Wasn't he?

"... Professor?" a voice asked, tentatively, causing Snape to jump surprised and press a hand over his hammering heart, despite all the tentativeness. Severus paled slightly more as he recognised the ghost floating in front of him.

"If it weren't such a serious situation, I'd say you look as though you've just seen a ghost, Sir," Draco drawled, a faint smirk tugging on the etches of his lips. His arms were crossed in front of his lithe chest, giving almost the impression that he was still the same old (and same living) Prince of Slytherin. Weren't it for the facts that he was half luminescent, faintly glowing blue, floating above the ground and carrying a cool aura around him, that was.

"Mr. Malfoy," Snape tried to sound sternly, after his heartbeat was back to a healthier rhythm. "I am glad to see that you managed to obtain your personal traits even after your early demise ..." his voice petered out, unsure. Should he give his condolences?

"Sir?" Draco's voice rescued Severus from his misery. "There is a reason why I am here and I think we should head to the headmaster's office."

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There was no real time of a reunion for Hermione and Draco this time as they saw each other. Hermione had been in the process of leaving to search for Harry and to begin the training for the spell that would take out the wards, as Snape and Draco arrived in Dumbledore's office. And after Draco had said his first sentence, every occupant, who hadn't been sitting at the moment, collapsed into the next available chair.

"Voldemort will strike soon."

"WHAT?" Hermione cried shocked, gripping the edges of her chair so tightly that her knuckles turned white and her nails drew splinters.

"Don't say his name," Severus hissed, automatically. It wasn't as if he feared his name, that had never been the reason behind his antipathy against 'Voldemort'. It was solely that Snape always feared that Voldemort might have the same gift as he himself. Would he know if someone uttered his name? Would he know that Snape worked against him? Fear nagged at him from the insides.

"He is back?" Dumbledore asked quietly, not a trace of a twinkle in his eyes, as Snape merely sat completely still.

"He was never gone," Draco replied, faintly floating back and forth.

"H-he can't be alive," Hermione said. "Harry killed him!" Snape didn't object, this was not the time to gloat.

"Draco?" Dumbledore redirected Malfoy's attention back. "Please tell us what you know so we shall decide on a turn of action."

Draco nodded shortly and began. "I died by the hands of some random Death Eater, unbelievable, I don't even know who the bloody- sorry. The point is that I died, but I knew something was wrong because I couldn't move. I was still somehow trapped in here, even without my body I couldn't cross the wards. I could see everything going on around me, but I couldn't interfere. It was as if I was under a full body binding spell, even though I could move. I tried for the last days to make contact but it was too hard - it was so frustrating! - well now it worked." Draco shuffled his hair slightly with one hand and shot a glance towards Snape. He knew how Voldemort had died, but this was not his secret to spill. "I read the article about the Tarantula Spell. It said that the powerful wizard would be stripped from great parts of his magic. These are the repercussions. Voldemort did it on purpose, he knew he'd surely die, to both trap us here for enough time and become a ghost without raising too many suspicions. He killed the Bloody Baron and is now Slytherin's Houseghost. Actually, a simple plan. But it worked, didn't it? It was too easy, way too easy to kill someone as powerful as Voldemort. He had let himself get killed. This was the whole idea behind. Of course, it was a trap! Why hadn't anybody thought about this before?"

"Because his Death Eaters had been vulnerable to the Light afterwards," Snape said, quietly. He himself hadn't wasted one second to doubt that Voldemort indeed was dead and buried somewhere in one of Hogwarts' empty classrooms. His joyous pseudo-victory over his master had diminished his thoughts to a minimum. How could this have happened? He WAS a Slytherin for Salazar's snake's sake! A Slytherin that could have ended in Gryffindor, but a Slytherin nonetheless.

"How Slytherin of him," Draco said flatly, not at all happy with sharing the same house with Voldemort. It was those creatures that gave the word 'Slytherin' this bad aftertaste. "No sacrifice is too big for his goal."

"And his sole goal is ..." Hermione said slowly, recognition downing on her, "... Harry."

"There's no way Harry can kill Voldemort as a ghost."

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"OPEN THE BLOODY DOOR THIS INSTANCE!" Ron yelled, banging against the wooden entrance to the 7th year boys' dorm. "I AM NOT PLEASED AT ALL!"

Harry didn't even seem to hear the screaming. He was paralysed, standing in the middle of the Gryffindor Common Room. His eyes were fixed upon the sinisterly smirking ghost floating mere meters in front of him. Any possible spectator would have said that Harry was part of the furniture, or somehow rooted to the floor. But unfortunately, the only possible spectator was one unnamed 1st year Gryffindor who would not say anything anymore.

"So we finally meet again," Voldemort hissed. "A nice little private party. It reminds me of home," he added, thoughtfully.

"Yeah," Harry managed to utter. His breathing was still ragged, but not due to some kind of exercise. How could he have guessed that after he came back from breakfast to fetch Ron, Voldemort would wait for him in the Common Room? How far-fetched was that? He wasn't a Seer, and Trelawney had not predicted anything in relation to Voldemort. As Harry's brain slowly went back into normal-drive, he registered the whole situation. He was in the Common Room. He was the sole living soul here. The corpse of an innocent mere meters away, who he hadn't managed to save. Voldemort being a ghost, pointing his luminescent wand at him. The circle was drawn closer. Now he couldn't even get out of the Common Room. At least, this also left Ron with no other choice but to stay in the dorm.

"Long time no see," Harry then regained his self-confidence back. "I'd rather it had stayed that way."

"As witty as always, I see," Voldemort tutted, waving his wand-hand disapprovingly. "Didn't your lovely relatives teach you any manners? Oh. I shouldn't have mentioned them. How inconsiderate of me."

Harry bristled visibly and clenched his fists. "You bloody-"

"Temper," Voldemort said, smiling a twisted smile. "It's always the temper the youth lacks these days. I," he then drawled, "wouldn't try this move now." His wand was pointed directly at Harry's head.

Harry grudgingly moved his hand back out of his robes. What to do? His mind wasn't too occupied, it was still a bit frozen. What should he do against a ghost? Even if he had managed to get his wand? Stalling. That was always a good idea. "Why aren't you dead? I mean, you know, dead-dead. The kind that never returned so that the rest of the world can live on in peace?"

Voldemort chuckled, clearly amused. "Now where would be the fun in that? Depriving the society of my precious presence is a crime against society itself, wouldn't you agree?" At the end, there was more malice in his voice.

"Whatever," Harry waved, then cradled his hand closely to his chest, hissing, because Voldemort had cursed it with a boiling spell.

"You are so ungrateful," the Dark Lord hissed, venomously. "Without me you would be nothing! Nobody would care if you lived or died. You wouldn't be special, anymore, and you wouldn't be the Boy-Who-Lived but the Boy-Who-Didn't-Matter! Show some gratitude!"

"Better nobody than nothing," Harry muttered, realizing that Voldemort was indeed far more sick than he'd thought earlier. Did he really believe he did Harry good with his doings? Harry thanked all gods that would listen that he had only to take a glimpse into Snape's mind, one into Voldemort and he'd be a permanent resident at St. Mungos.

"What? Where's all the Gryffindor braveness? Don't you want to do anything?" Voldemort mocked. "Or are you tired? Would you like to take a break and go soothing your little redheaded friend for the loss of his sister? Or the little mudblood for the loss of her lover?"

"What are you doing?" Harry asked. "Why do you wait? I can't do anything against you. The both of us know that. So why are you waiting?"

"Oh," Voldemort sounded almost disappointed. "Too clever a boy. I wait for the last to arrive."

"The last," Harry repeated, dully.

And then the portrait hole swung open and Snape climbed through it, closely followed by Dumbledore, who didn't get through the barrier.

"Still alive, Potter, I see," Severus growled, lightly, checking quickly if the boy was all right. Then gritting his teeth as his eyes fell upon the dead corpse.

"Disappointed?" Harry asked in return.

"Always."

"Enough with the pleasantries," Voldemort cut in, then casting a glance towards Dumbledore who tried futile charms and spells to counteract the wall in the portrait hole. "Don't even bother," he sneered. "It's a family matter and you are not invited."

Harry made a faint gagging noise. Family? This was not the right time for using such ill-fitting pseudo-phrases. "I'd rather marry the squid than sharing the same family tree with you!"

"Aside from marrying the squid," Severus drawled. "I have to agree with Potter for once."

Voldemort frowned slightly. "But I said you wouldn't get rid of me," he reminded his former Potions Master.

"And here you are. I have eyes and know how to use them."

"Haven't you figured it out yet?" Voldemort asked, his ghostly self even more chilling than his half-human form. "I can't believe you could be so daft, my boy."

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"How is my little darling today?" Danae cooed, rocking her baby gently. "Better, aren't we?" she added smiling, as the baby gurgled happily. Danae smoothed out the soft tufts of hair on her daughter's head, then she planted a gentle kiss on her forehead. So soft was she, as if her skin was covered with silk.

"Petunia, sweetie," she then addressed her second daughter. "Would you hand me Lily's jacket, please? We're going for a walk."

"Sure, Mom," little Petunia replied, handing her mother the tiny jacket. "Can I carry her?"

"Are you sure?" Danae smiled. "Won't you let her drop?"

"No!" Petunia retorted, indignantly. "Lily is sooo light, I won't let her drop. And I'm already four," she added, showing five fingers, "I can hold my sister."

"Right, sweetie. Here you go." Danae watched proudly as Petunia held her little sister securely to her chest, telling her quietly that she didn't need to be afraid because her big sister was watching over her.

The homely domestic bliss didn't last long, though, only a few weeks later it should be over. Danae's father was a man who thought a lot of premonition and divination. He trusted them with his life, and as they told him that he would die by the hands of his own grandson, he needed to react. He ripped his daughter out of her home, leaving her husband to fend alone for their two daughters. Danae's father put her into a secluded tower. Danae couldn't believe what was happening at first. She hadn't done anything wrong, had she? Why would her own father fall back on such drastic measures like imprisoning his own flesh and blood only because of such a silly premonition? Had one of his experiments finally gone horribly wrong and caused his mind to shut down?

All those questions swirled around in Danae's head as the redheaded woman sat on her bed, staring off into space. She longed for her man, his warm embrace, his reassuring words. She wanted to see her daughters again. Their smile was everything Danae needed to feel elated again, being able to forget every dark thought in her life. But it was not to be, as Danae stared out of the small window.

She wished she had told her man everything, told him who she really was. How would he react when their daughters suddenly would develop magical powers and receive their Hogwarts letters? Danae held little hope of being able to watch for herself how her precious daughters would grow. Lily was just a baby, she probably wouldn't even recall her at all. And Petunia ... Danae missed her so much, but at the same time, she hoped that she would tell Lily everything about her. Petunia was the only person in her own family who knew that Danae was a witch. She had told her daughter various stories of her life, but she wasn't sure if Petunia really believed them. Danae hoped so.

Time crept by slowly; at least for Danae. She wasn't exactly sure how many days had passed, isolated in her lonely tower. Food had never been a problem, though, as she knew that her father himself was also a wizard, and as such he had his ways to let meals appear magically in the cold room. The water in her tiny bathroom, though, was not quite so cool, fortunately, otherwise she would have died from hypothermia a while ago.

It seemed a day as any other before, as Danae woke early to the sound of faintly bird twittering. They sang from the pretty things of life, of freedom, of joy, of hope, of love. But for Danae the birds' song sounded so utterly sad that it forced tears to her eyes.

Suddenly, Danae had to shield her eyes from a sudden brightness, which didn't seem to come from the sun. So early in the day the sun couldn't possibly stand so high. Danae glanced towards the window and blinked. Twice. There was a delicate branch laburnum growing into the tower. The leaves glowed brightly, so intensive as if they were made of pure gold, pouring down. As the common parlance said 'gold-rain'. Danae couldn't help but be mesmerized by its beauty, she didn't bother to ask herself how the tree could have grown so rapidly during the night, she didn't bother to ask herself how such a tree could have grown so much in the first place, as her prison was so high in the air that no plant could reach it.

And then, the leaves suddenly exploded into a gently rain, spraying golden sparks all over Danae, enveloping her. Danae wasn't afraid, which was odd in itself, but Danae herself couldn't feel more natural. It felt so right, she felt so warm, being covered in a blanket made of gold, soaking into her skin. Her heart felt at ease, it felt elated, she felt weird and she felt ... loved.

And in the next moment, it was over, and all what was left, was a strange tingling sensation in Danae's stomach. A tingling she was just all too familiar with.

Danae's father was understandably not too pleased with the development of the events. What should he do more? He already had his daughter imprisoned in a secluded tower, but even there she had gotten pregnant. Sometimes, he cursed the fact that they were wizards, it made everything so much more difficult. And it wasn't worth the effort. Nothing was. He wouldn't die by the hands of his own grandson. He wouldn't die at all. For he would be immortal. And to regain this goal he would do anything, he would sacrifice anything necessary. Even his daughter. A daughter he never wanted in the first place. A problem he would take care of, once and for all.

Danae and her unborn child wouldn't have survived if it hadn't been for the protecting hand that was shielding them from every evil. The wooden box Danae was trapped in was even tinier and more uncomfortable than the tower she had been, and the rocking motions weren't soothing in the least, as the make-shift boot slashed through the cruel river. Silent tears ran over her cheeks as she stroked her stomach tenderly. She wouldn't waste time for prayers to non-existing gods, she knew in her heart that she wouldn't survive this trip. But thankfully she was wrong.

How could her own father try to kill her in such a terrible way? Confined in a suffocating wood-box, thrown into the rushing stream. He didn't care, if she would choke to death or drown. All he cared for was that she and more importantly her unborn son was dead in the end. So heartless, so cold and calculating. Was this really the same man Danae had worshipped as a small girl? Well, a child couldn't quite grasp the personality of one's parent. In their eyes their fathers and mothers could do no wrong, they were perfect. Perfect.

Days later, Danae's box stranded on an empty beach. It was a miracle for her that neither she nor her unborn child had been harmed. The same kind of miracle that had impregnated her in the first place. But all the strange things happened to witches, so she didn't bother questioning her state. All that mattered was that she was alive and that her son (she hadn't any doubt that it would be a son, for why else would her father had taken up such drastic measures?) would be born into a world where he would be welcome. Yes, a world where he was welcome, but where he most likely wouldn't have any siblings. Petunia, Lily. Danae's heart ached for them, but for the sake of them and for the sake of her son, she wouldn't return. She would do anything within her power to ensure all of them happiness, even though in this doing her own happiness would be mostly denied.

Fortuna meant good for her, one last time. The brothers Diktys and Polydektes Snape took her in. Diktys married her, raised Danae's son as his own. Diktys never knew who the boy's father was, Danae never told anyone of the miraculous circumstances he had been conceived. Even why Danae had been shipping through the cold river had never been a question. Danae and Diktys had been happy, well, as happy as Danae could get anyway with missing her 'real' husband and her daughters, but her life went on and its sometimes cruel routes managed nothing but strengthened her. She needed to live, for her man, for herself, but most of all for her son. A newborn boy was always innocent and shouldn't be put down with the weight of problems even Danae found hard to bear. He was as light as he could be, cut off all ties of a past he never knew he had, unknowingly being deprived of his genuine name. Severus Snape. Never known as Perseus Evans.

By the time Severus turned seven, fate again decided to turn things to worse. Diktys died, leaving Danae and his adopted son behind. They had nothing left, their hands were bare and they were forced to look the next morning proudly into its ugly face. But as it was common in these late days, Polydektes saw himself forced to look after his brother's widow and her son. He wasn't all too pleased about that, of course, as he would have liked all for himself. Many had wondered in hushed voices how Diktys and Polydektes could have possibly been brothers, so differently they were. Where Diktys had been gentle and sensible, Polydektes was rough and cruel. The traits hadn't been shared fair amongst them. And the sudden change of 'Snape's' attitude had left their scars on both Danae and Severus.

Danae's father knew nothing of the survival of his daughter and her son for a long time. It was only many years later, as this man came to him, writhing in long-denied weakness, seeking for long-denied power, that Tom Riddle knew his grandson was alive.