Chapter I

He liked to think his life would have different, better, if it weren't for the sister that never was. Yes it would have been much better. It made no difference whether she was born or if she had never been conceived; either option would have greatly improved the state of his life.

Before his mother had been pushed down the stairs and the lifeblood of the child she carried inside her had bled away, she had been a strong woman. His parents had been, well never equals, but at least his father seemed to have some respect for the woman he had married. After she fell though, the woman he had called mother was replaced by the shallow husk of the woman she had been. After her child died within her womb his mother seemed to have no other desire then to join her. Before the fall Severus had been protected but after, his mother seemed only too ready to let Severus bare the brunt of his angry father.

He liked to keep the bruises when he could. He was in no way masochistic but the marks on his arms and torso served as a reminder of what had happened, so that in the morning his father's indifferent attitude and his mother's silence did not make it all seem like some horrible nightmare but was in fact the reality in which he lived. Visible bruises on his person were cared for as soon as they appeared but not out of any regret or wish to spare his son pain. It was of course to keep the neighbours from talking.

Severus remembered the screaming matches they would have, only to end with a dull thump and echoing silence. He would then tend to his mother and she would call him her sweet boy. She would promise that she would protect Severus from everything and that some day they would find a way to leave. If the child had been born perhaps risking the safety of both her children would have spurred Constantine into action. They may have gone to Grandmother Darkraven's small home in Beaumaris. Severus had always enjoyed the few times they had spent holidays there visiting his mothers Welsh kin, of course he had enjoyed it, his father would never come on those trips. Or if the child had never been conceived maybe the never ending violence and the strain of keeping up appearances would have convinced Constantine that they could have a better life elsewhere.

He soon grew to hate his mother for being so weak. He was only nine; he couldn't really understand the psychological consequences for a woman that has just lost her child after five months of pregnancy. All he saw was his mother abandoning him to the acid tongue and hard fist of his father. Nine is a tender age to have your entire world ripped up from beneath you. He had put so much stock in his mother. She was his whole world and that world had suddenly turned its back on him.

The days and months dragged by and Severus withdrew further and further inside himself. The only way for him to escape the strained atmosphere the oppressive Snape household was to retreat into the library. There he discovered his sanctuary, the hundreds of volumes of dark arts books in his father's collection. This was what his father was always on about; this was the power that he claimed was the greatest of all magic. Severus made a decision. He would have this power too. He would not be weak like his mother and just give up, he would not be weak like his father who for all his posturing did nothing with this so called great power. He would be greater then his father and he would find someone who was worthy of his affections, someone who could replace the family that cared nothing for him.

Yes, maybe his life would have been better with or without the sister that never was but there was nothing he could do to change that now and as Severus examined the envelope that held his invitation to Hogwarts he knew that was where his new path in life would begin.

Chapter II

They all told me that it wasn't my fault: that what had happened hadn't happened because of me, that it had been an accident: but that was what people were telling me. They told me a rather different story, and they were always right. They told me that it was my fault she had died, that if I had been there for her like I should have, she'd still be alive now.

Perhaps by now you are wondering whom it was that I failed so badly that it cost them their life? Perhaps you are wondering who they are. Well perhaps I can explain… perhaps, though I doubt you'll believe me on the latter of the two: no one ever did…

Whenever I think back to that day, the first thing I remember is the rain: the ethereal veil of April rain. It was beautiful in my eyes, but I was later to find that it was far more deadly than I ever would have imagined…

I can't remember exactly why, but I was late getting out of school that day. What I do remember is running through the rain, worried that I would be late collecting Ama. You see Ama was my younger sister. Was, not is: and that is my fault: is, not was; I still feel guilt about what happened: they make sure of that. My parents were never around, so I was pretty much in charge of caring for my sister. Most people would never have thought a nine-year-old girl would be able to care for her three sisters much less a four-year-old sister, but I did. I had to: if not me then who would have? Of course, looking back I know I should have let someone take the responsibility off of my shoulders, but I didn't, did I?

But I digress; this is not what you want to hear, is it? Now back to my tale…

I remember running through the rain, faster than I ever had before.

My own reflectionSometimes,
When I'm able to,
I'm looking in the mirror.
What I see there,
Frightens me,
More then anything in the world.From time to time,
When I'm able to.
I see more bruises,
Cuts and crimson tears.
A frightened flower,
Withering away in it's shadow.
...

I remember running through the rain, faster than I ever had before. I had the suspicion something was wrong: I just didn't know what. Well, any questions I had had abated as soon as I reached the preschool Ama attended. There was an ambulance outside, its siren's wailing mournfully in the rain. I turned, afraid, and saw what had happened.

A pool of red shone bright and ominous against the colourless world, and the body of a child was being carried away into the ambulance. Her white hair was matted with blood, her black eyes dull, unseeing… lifeless. Ama. My sister. Dead. Gone. My fault. Should have been there. Wasn't. She's gone now. Dead.

Someone spoke to me: "there's nothing to see here, run along."

I tried to explain that she was my sister, but I found I couldn't. The words got stuck in my throat as I tried to speak. My eyes clouded over with tears so I couldn't see. All I could here was the sirens wailing. Then nothing; the crowds had gone and I stood alone, though for how long I didn't know. The crowds had gone and the sirens couldn't be heard any longer. The rain had washed away her blood, the veil of rain, which still poured on, falling on my face and mixing with my tears. There was no one to see me cry, and even if there had been I doubted anyone would have cared. I stood there, alone and crying, nothing more than a shadow hidden by the April rain, the beautiful rain that was in truth not rain but the tears of the dead.

It wasn't long after that that they started to come to me. Their voices hissed and called to me, echoed through my head, venom, poison: they made me bitter at first, but I soon came to realise that they were speaking the truth: the truth that no one else would ever tell me. Mother, father, doctors, family, friends, everyone told me that Ama had been killed by a hit and run driver, though they never found the culprit. I knew they were wrong though; it was my stupidity that had killed her. If it hadn't been for me she'd still be here. They were the ones who told me that, and they were always right, weren't they?

I still remember her funeral, of course I do, but it is not the funeral itself I wish to recount to you: what I wish to tell you is of something that happened after the funeral had ended. All others had departed from the graveyard, but I had not. I was just standing there, staring mindlessly at her gravestone: it was hard for me to believe that her body was hidden in that tiny white coffin and buried six feet deep.

"But she is," the voice whispered. "She's gone and it's your fault. Don't deny it, you know it's true."

When I stare
At my reflection,
For more then long enough.
I can see HIM smile,
Glare at me,
And whisper the words,
That are being carved in my heart.I close my eyes,
I see the darkness.
I open my eyes,
And see no light.A minut of anger,
A second of rage.
My fist that makes contact,
With my reflection,
Suddenly scattered.
...

I turned around, tears springing into my eyes yet again, and was stunned by what I saw. A girl around my own age, perhaps slightly older than me, was resting casually against one of the headstones, her black eyes narrowed with malice, a sneer on her face.

"Who are you," I asked, stunned by her sudden appearance.

"I am you," came the enigmatic reply and then she disappeared as suddenly as she had come.

I stood there in shock, looking round for her, but she wasn't there; perhaps I had been imagining things, perhaps they weren't real.

A small piece,
Almost harmless,
Cold and unknowing.
A brief moment,
Of pain and stings.Memory's fly by,
Blood touches the wall,
And slowly drips onto the ground.

"But I am real," the voice hissed, and I realised that they were the same as the girl I had just seen. "I am as real as you are, and I'm only telling you the truth. If you don't believe me, ask her."

I turned around to face Ama's grave again and saw her there. Her hair and clothes caked with blood, her eyes hollow, lifeless and broken, blood flowing from them in a macabre parody of human tears.

"You could have saved me, sis," she whispered. "You could have saved me…"

With that she too disappeared, and I was left alone once more, alone and surrounded by death, broken and crying in the April rain.

My own reflection,
A 1000 times,
Little pieces,
Smiling,
And crying the tears of blood,
Until,
My eyes are dry,
And my body hits the ground.Leaving nothing behind,
But a lifeless shadow,
Covering the light