ONE MORE DAY
by: Riseha

Preface

When you start seeing someone else's face on a total stranger, it's a sure sign that you're in need of medical help. You don't just ignore it and pretend that it's a one-time thing – especially when it kept continuing and you kept seeing this person on complete strangers.

That is how I was conceived, you see.

My father was delusional – to a certain degree – and he thought, for a moment, that the lady was the woman he loved and lost.

Other than the red hair – that was the exact same shade – and green eyes – though Mom's eyes were a shade darker – my mother looked nothing like Lily Evans – unless you counted the number of freckles and their height.

My father – surprise – was Severus Snape, a professor at Hogwarts and the Slytherin Head of House.

My mother, on the other hand, was a Muggle – even to this day, I don't think she knew anything about magic.

That wasn't the most surprising part: did you know that, this world I was born into again, after I'd died, used to be fiction? A series of novel that turned out to be real? That the people existed in an alternate reality?

Yeah... I didn't believe it either. It wasn't until I was five when I started noticing these tiny details. Perhaps my father's magic and wand would've given it away but, somehow, he hid the fact that he was a wizard from my mother whom he married – for the sake of the growing baby, he was a man with honor after all.

I didn't know magic either, not until I shattered Mom's favorite vase. I'd remember that day till I die – and maybe, carry that memory into my next life too – I'd remember the sliver of fear and how my mind was already whirring for a way to blame this on something else – the fear that was dashed away when my father drew his wand for the first time in my presence, muttered something under his breath, and the broken pieces of the vase piecing themselves together, whole as new again.

"Be more careful, next time," I still remembered his voice saying. He didn't sound angry nor did he try to explain how the vase pieced itself together – fantastic, he always gave me the illusion that everything was all right.

I resembled my father more – or perhaps it was the personality I'd always had even in my past life – with our paleness, polite sarcasm, natural aptitude for silence and tendency to fade away into the background. I had a feeling this frustrated my outgoing mother more than she let on, especially the annoyance she felt when I often rejected her offer to bring me to the park or out shopping.

I'd prefer curling up in the small house somewhere and reading or sleeping the day away.

I fared fairly well in school, breezing past tests without needing much effort – neither of my parents realized that I hadn't studied as it was basic kids stuff I had learned in the life before.

Perhaps the reason why I never noticed something was wrong with – how strained – my parents' relationship was because they hid it very well, or perhaps because Dad wasn't around often as he taught year-round at a school. He only came back during the holidays, sometimes but not often enough on weekends, and if my parents argued, I never knew as I was often up in bed by the time he swung by – I'd only see him the next morning.

Now that I knew about magic, I supposed he had cast a Silencing Charm to hid the fact he and his wife were screaming themselves hoarse at one another.

Father was the one who confronted me with a life-changing decision: choose.

I do not believe kids at the mere age of six – I might be the only exception to this rule – had any right to choose which parent they want to follow, especially not when they didn't fully understand the situation. But I was not six years old in mind; my mentality was that of a twenty-something adult.

I knew what was good and bad for me – but not necessarily the best.

So, that night, I was led away by my egg-donor of this world, away from the sperm-donor, his last words ringing in my ears: "I'm sorry you were born."

Mother never mentioned it, from the multiple trips she had to make to somewhere, I was sure she was filing for a divorce. Mom was pretty well off – she worked as a Muggle-accountant so she had plenty saved up to raise both of us. We never mentioned Dad – Mom was too grateful to wonder why I never asked and I understood too much to wonder about anything.

His parting words left me doubtless that he wouldn't write to me or visit.

A wizard, indeed.

I didn't see hide nor hair – or even seen his face – of Dad for three years until he came by to visit me in the hospital when I burned down part of the school and was recently expelled.

I didn't care what they said or how badly Mom reacted to what I'd done – they all thought I was a pyromaniac and tried to burn the whole school down just because my schoolmates made a few jibes. I didn't care – all I cared was that Dad visited and I'm a witch.

I, who was used to keeping things hidden, never mentioned anything to Mom – and Dad did say something about the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy. I was just – happy and aware. My smile as I trotted out of the hospital, fully healed sooner than expected (just after Dad left, hiding his wand beneath his cloak), further supported the theory that I was a verytroubled and abnormal child.

Mom was at home more often than usual after that incident, leaving me with very little time to play with magic and see what I could do.

I had nothing against her but when she started breathing down my neck, I started avoiding her and frequenting the park.

I guess my relationship with both my parents were horribly strained. Or perhaps not. I was just – distant. Mom couldn't baby me because my twenty-year-old mentality wouldn't allow it. Dad never really bothered with me – he was as distant as I am. His personality did me no good, Mom always assumed – said it out loud when she thought I couldn't hear – I inherited my antisocial nature from my father.

That was not to say my Mom gave up easily: she was someone who'd never leave any ends loose without trying her best – I love her determination. She tried, many times. She phoned her friends for help, for advice and let their kids play with me. Mom had a silver tongue and managed to break through the other parents' worries about my pyromaniac nature – I screwed up.

Mom and the parents brought all of us to an amusement park and told us to toddle off and play.

I wandered off, I did, and never bothered with what had happened to the kids. I was idly vandalizing – well, I call it a brush of creativity – the wall when someone tutted and tapped their foot loudly to catch my attention.

I knew I was supposed to acknowledge said person because there was no one else in the rather secluded area but I ignored whoever it was – until, of course, a small hand grabbed my shoulder.

I turned, lips pressed in a thin line. "Yes?"

The girl frowning – or pouting – down at me was about my age with a lot of bushy brown hair, charcoal colored eyes, and rather large front teeth.

Would it be wrong to say I know her?

Yes. Rather, I know of her. I never knew her, personally, but my grasp on her personality was enough for me to predict what she was going to say.

"You shouldn't be drawing on the walls," said the girl. True to my prediction then. "It's wrong."

"Who are you going to tell?" I wondered mildly.

Her frown faltered. "W-well – why are you here? Didn't you came here to play?"

"What about you?" I inquired.

If possible, her face fell even more. "I did came here to play, but – no one wants to – "

"Why?"

"They say I'm a know-it-all. You think so too, don't you?"

"No. You don't know me, so how can you make such an assumption?"

"That's not true. You're the quiet girl that everyone stares weirdly at." I paused. Wait, we're schoolmates? I didn't know. I suppose the school was too big and we probably passed each other without paying much attention. "We're in the same class – Lilian Fiennes-Snape, right?"

I blinked. "Oh. I don't remember you."

She nodded, I don't think she could look any glummer. "Expected as much. You never talk to anybody but the teachers. I heard the teacher say that you're a... wait, give me a sec, I'm remembering it – uh, yeah, they called you ADD kid or something."

"Uh-huh. I just don't like talking."

"But you're talking now."

"If you need to speak with me, I will respond. Have any of you ever approached me to strike a conversation?"

The girl considered, frowned, and shook her head. I examined the chalk I'd taken from the classroom. It was very short now. I'd need to get a new one. From the class. Without anyone knowing. "See? Not one of you tried to see what sort of person I am. All of you just assume I'm–"

"They're scared of you," the to-be witch blurted out. "They said you looked like a vampire."

"Cool. I wish I was one."

And somehow, the girl sat down next to me and we talked. Just us – two girls who had no other friends, sitting and talking instead of running around and playing.

"My name's Hermione Granger," she said just before her parents led her away.

"I know," I told her.

( ｡◕‿‿◕｡)

Just trying my hand at SI's, tell me what you think.

xxx