Chapter 2
Amara sat in the front of the class during potions. Her father ignored her. He did not talk to her, or yell at her, or deduct points from Griffindor on her. He just ignored her. It was fine with Amara. She was unsure whether her father was even capable of love. She knew for a fact that she didn't love him. Far from it.
Potions was the last class of the day. Thank God, thought Amara.
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She wasn't hungry. So she didn't go. To dinner. It was as simple as that. Amara was thinking about her mother. Only Snape and herself knew who she was. She wasn't allowed to tell anyone. As if. Amara had nobody to tell anyway. She had lived a friendless life. She was beautiful, smart, friendly, charming, and kind. But still, she didn't have any friends.
That would change very soon, though Amara did not know it.
Right now she was dreading seeing her father. It was Monday. Every Tuesday, on behest of the headmaster, Amara was to eat dinner with her father. He didn't say anything about acting civil though, Amara thought to herself with a grin.
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"Amara?" Snape asked in his silky, quiet voice. Amara was picking at her food with her fork, twirling the spagetti around and around, not eating any. They were in one of Dumbledore's private rooms.
"What?" she answered overloudly, not looking at him.
"Stop picking at your food."
"Make me."
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Amara retreated to the Griffindor common room after dinner. She looked at the clock. Eleven twenty-one.
She had not said anything to her father after that "make me". She was sure her father didn't mind, but of course he pretended to.
Amara sat down on the crimson couch in front of the fire with a sigh. She hated her father. Severus Snape had left her and her mother when she was four. She still remembered it well.
"Daddy?" a mini Amara had tugged on the bottom of his black robes -she couldn't reach any higher. He didn't answer.
He grew rough, and pulled her off of him. "Ama-Amara. Stop it. I have to go." Snape's voice was husky, showing emotion that no-one had ever heard in his normally emotionless voice. He gathered all his bags, suitcases, etc. and held them close for a moment.
"But where, Daddy? Where are you going? And why?" He vanished, never to answer, apparating into the foggy morning.
And then the Death Eaters came to call.
Eight years later the Death Eaters still came knocking. Amara's young mind had dreamt so many times that her father would come and rescue them both from this hell. But no. That was how Amara's mother had died.
The Death Eaters beat her to death.
Amara's mother hadn't even been taken to St. Mungos. No. She had died, right there, at home, in front of her daughter.
Then Snape had come. He acted like nothing was wrong. For the next four years she attended a boarding school of witchcraft and wizardry far away. Then came the death threats. Then came the terror. Amara was a powerful witch in her own right, even though she was young. Snape, with Dumbledore's urges, withdrew her from that school and brought her to Hogwarts, where she would be safe (or at least safer). Amara hated him. For abandoning them. For being who he was. He never understood.
Tears ran down Amara's sad face. She leaned into the pillow and sobbed. She fell asleep minutes later. She didn't feel the hand that stroked her hair, the hand that wiped still fresh tears off her face. No, she didn't feel it. But it comforted her, even in her dreams.