What our parents believed

A crazy thought one day. It seems to me that children with magical abilities can sometimes do magical things without really meaning to and without really knowing how (like when Harry let the python loose grin). What happens when a young child's magical abilities get a tad out of control? This would seem normal, if a tad exasperating, to wizard families… but what if it happened to a Muggle-born?

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from these fictions. Sara Michaels is a purely fictional character of my own creation. Please forgive some mild Hagrid-bashing. I love the man, but very much doubt that Snape thinks much of him.

Left alone in her tiny, dismal room, the girl heard the door shut, the lock clicked. Silence, then the muffled sound of footsteps faded as the person made their way down the hall. Sara Michaels took another sip of water to wash away the bitter aftertaste left in her mouth. As always, the water was too warm for her liking, and made her gag. But it did wash the pills down, and that was all that mattered.

After downing the rest of her water, she set the cup neatly in one corner. They'd come to pick it up the next time they visited. A small luxury, but a luxury none the less. Most people here weren't allowed to keep their cups, supposedly because they could do some harm with even that object, though Sara never understood how.

Sure, if the cups were made of glass, someone could smash it and use the shards to slit their wrists. Even the hard plastic kind could be used by some of the others to hurt themselves, or others, in some way. But the cups there were those cheap, clear plastic ones. Not the ones that cracked and broke easily, the ones that really weren't quite clear, almost foggy looking, that crumpled easily and made little white lines in the plastic. The kind that was impossible to tear apart, though they seemed quite fragile. But at the Lethbridge United Mental Wellness Hospital, a polite name for a loony bin, over-cautiousness was the key. Sara was well enough that she was allowed small freedoms. But she still had to stay locked tight inside, and she still had to take the pills.

Time passed and, predictably, the cries and moans started. Martha. She always did that, every time the nurses came to administer her meds, every time someone else started shouting, a prelude to a cacophony of wails and shrieks. Every time the 'bad people' came into her cell. The thing was there were no bad people, for everyone save Martha. Sara was almost certain that Martha didn't get to keep her cup so she could finish her water.

Leaning back against the padded wall, Sara curled her thin knees up against her chest and swiped a lock of brown hair from her eyes. She hated them both, the dull, lacklustre color of her hair, and the equally dull brown of her eyes. Sara's younger sister was beautiful, with corn-silk blonde hair and startling green eyes. The girl was seven years old and too blissfully ignorant to appreciate her looks or to realize that she was an object of envy. She briefly wondered how Megan was, and then decided that wondering didn't change anything. Megan would hardly remember her older sister, as their parents rarely took her for visits. They seemed afraid that exposing the young girl to Sara's insanity would only make things worse for everybody. They also thought that Megan wouldn't be able to handle the noises and confusion of the hospital, even for small periods of time.

Eleven years old, and Sara had been in the hospital for close to two years. She had gotten very used to everything there. And before that, she had been seeing different medical doctors and psychologists for as long as she could remember. Ever since her parents had realized, much to their horror, that their oldest daughter was suffering from more than just the active imagination of childhood. When things started getting worse, they sent her here. At times, she despaired that she would never leave the hospital, never get better, never have a normal life. Despite all this, Sara learned to be cheerful and outgoing (as much as was possible, when she was in such a controlled environment) and to bear it all with a smile. She had learned a while ago that people who acted too sad got more medicine and needles. Sara didn't like that at all.

As she continued thinking, something nagged at the back of her mind. Not quite registering the fact, the girl continued sitting pensively, wondering about her life, reminiscing. In this place, her mind was her only refuge as well as her worst enemy. After all, it was the reason she was in here. Sluggishly, unwillingly, her mind started drifting back to reality.

It was too quiet. A distant part of her mind smirked at the old cliché; the rest of her was filled with a vague sense of unease. The hospital never got this quiet, not even at night when everyone was supposed to be sleeping. For one thing, there Martha was almost always moaning in her sleep. There were also people pacing the corridors from time to time, making sure that all was well and that the crazies were fast asleep.

In the absence of even these familiar noises, Sara's heart seemed abnormally loud. What was going on?

Footsteps started down the hallway, echoing bizarrely in the unnatural silence. Heavy, slow footsteps, a person who was walking as if they were looking for something. Or someone, her mind quailed. The sounds moved closer and closer, sending her fear to a fever pitch. Sara clapped a hand over her nose and mouth in an effort to silence her increasingly rapid breathing. Heart pounding too loudly for her liking, the small girl tried to scrunch herself up even more. It's just a nurse; it's just one of the nurses. Nothing's wrong, she chanted inwardly.

Darkness passed by the crack under the door and a shadow crept along the small glass pane. A man muttered something in a deep voice, a word that she didn't understand. Maybe it was a different language. The lock clicked. Sara gasped as the door swung open. It was coming for her. She tried to crouch back even further as the shadow slid into her small room. Her breath sounded shrilly through her lips. She was breathing too fast, and couldn't make herself slow down. Tears streamed down her bony cheeks. Any time now, she would lose control completely and start sobbing hysterically.

The footsteps stopped just inside the door. Without knowing it, Sara had clenched her eyes closed. Foolish logic... if you couldn't see it, it couldn't see you. The thing called her name, hesitantly, questioningly. She didn't answer, didn't want it to know that she was the one it was looking for. It called her name again, the voice so low and soothing. She could imagine that it had a horrible monster face and that the voice was to lull her into a false sense of security.

"Sara Michaels," the voice said. "You have to come with me. I was sent to get you. Get up, girl, we don't have much time." It sounded impatient, annoyed. She didn't want to make the monster angry. Taking a deep breath, she dared to open her eyes and peek at the figure looming before her. Maybe Martha was right about the bad people.

After the initial introductions, the silence had lasted for a good half an hour. The strange man had ushered the young girl out of the hospital and lead her to a dark blue Oldsmobile. Then he drove away as she sat in stony silence.

Manoeuvring through traffic, he took an instant to glance at the girl. She was a small, pale, frail slip of a thing. Like a plant lovingly cared for, but kept out of the sun, left craving what it needed most. A dark wisp of brown hair fell across her forehead and nearly into her wide eyes. It must have aggravated her, it would have bugged the hell out of him, but she either didn't care to sweep it away, or she was still so afraid that she didn't dare attempt even that slight movement. A pang of regret, an alien feeling, many would say, swept through him. He hadn't meant to scare her.

His dark eyes flicked back onto the road just in time; he cursed and slammed on the brake to avoid hitting a van in front of him. His heart pounded as someone honked their horn, probably at him. He really should be paying attention to what he was doing. Lord, how he loathed driving Muggle cars. It had always baffled him, and many of his kind, how they could stand to travel at enormous speeds in hunks of metal with nothing more than a strap of thick material and, sometimes, a bag that exploded and filled with gas on impact, to keep them from hurtling out of the car. The man's own choice to learn to drive these blasted Muggle contraptions was borne not of necessity but a silly, youthful whim of his, many years ago. Something, anything, to break the monotony of his childhood summers.

Leaning his head back against the seat and panting for breath, the man praised his good luck for avoiding an accident all while cursing the stupidity of the blasted machine and of himself. Keep your eyes on the road, man, he thought furiously. First thing you learn about driving. He looked over at the girl to make sure she was alright. But, seeing as she had been pale and wide-eyed with fright to begin with, he really couldn't tell if she'd even noticed their near miss.

"Are you injured at all?" he asked with an uncharacteristic mildness. She shot him a fearful look before quickly glancing away. "Nod or shake your head, you don't have to talk. Are you alright?" A pause, then a short nod. "Sorry if I scared you."

The silence stretched on for a bit longer, slowly, the cars started moving again. Then a thin voice asked "I'm sorry, but who are you?"

He bit back a sigh of impatience, holding back his sarcasm better than he knew he was capable of. She was young, scared to death. He couldn't expect everything he told her to sink in. Although, he really hadn't told her all that much besides his name. Too much to explain right now. "I'm Professor Severus Snape," he reminded her. Then, surprising even himself, he added, "But you can call me Severus for now."

The girl, Sara, thought about that for a moment. Then, "Where are you taking me?" He glanced at her through the corner of his eye. The child's small, pale face was tilted up at him, her eyes expectant and questioning. No longer afraid. That was good.

"I'm taking you to school," he answered simply. No more details, not just yet. She may not be able to handle it just yet. Her brow furrowed in confusion.

"But I can't go to school," she announced. "I'm not supposed to." Snape's eyes widened slightly in surprise.

"And why not?" he drawled, some of his sarcastic manner slipping into his voice before he could stop it. This was a delicate situation, to be dealt with tactfully. God, Dumbledore sent the wrong person.

"I'm not supposed to leave the hospital. I'm insane, you know," she clarified, her voice in that refreshing, matter-of-fact tone that all children had. God, it made his heart ache to hear it. "I have been for years, probably all my life. Mum and Dad took me to see the doctors, and they said I wasn't right in the head and that I shouldn't be seeing these things..." The potions master couldn't bear it anymore.

"You're not insane." The words came out harsher than he'd intended. Her mouth snapped shut and she looked away from him, fear taking hold once more. "I'm sorry, but you're not," he said gently. "You're really not." God, Dumbledore picked the absolute wrong person.

Author's note:

Poor Severus, having to play chauffeur to a confused, frightened girl.

Hmmm… Poor Sara, having to put up with an annoyed Snape.

Ah well, they seem to be handling themselves pretty well, all things considering. I demand reviews! REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW! (I'm such a brat!)