The usual disclaimers apply.
xx
He had not expected her to pick up swimming right away – she splashed around more, flicked water in his face, and doggie-paddled in the water. But he had already decided that he would make sure she learned to swim decently. Just because, well, she loved to look under the water, as she said, in the bathtub at home and he certainly did not want to find her there, thinking she had drowned and then again, he had her future to think about. He could not bear the thought to send her to Durmstrang – too dark, nor to Beauxbaton – too flighty so it would leave Hogwarts. And the Black Lake was deep. And he would have to make sure, no matter if Slytherins in general (and his daughter in particular) were frowned upon that she would not drown there, even if some idiotic Gryffindors found it funny to levitate her there and let her drop into the water. Been there, done that. And is daughter was supposed to defend herself, rescue herself. He would teach her. And swimming was only the step.
She would not have his life at Hogwarts. But there were years to come. She was only 5 now. Only five.
And completely tired out from playing in the water for such a long time. He himself had to admit that he was exhausted as well. Watching his girl, taking care of her with those massive amounts of energy that she had stored somewhere in that little body of hers. Much more energy than he had. Obviously. Even though that energy had been completely gone by the time she was supposed to shower and wash her hair and dry herself off. No – she had just stood there, leaning against his thigh, very tiredly, very worn out and he had washed her and towelled her off and dressed her. And by the time he was dressed as well, she had almost fallen asleep. On the way home, despite the apparating, she was asleep on his arm, her head lolling against his shoulder.
It was a heady feeling, that. Truly, magnificently heady to have someone trust him that much. Rely on him and he had not fought the feeling and had sat next to her bed for a while – watching her sleep. She smiled a little, even in her sleep and had unconsciously grabbed her three-headed dog, held the hellhound (yes, Fluffy and Cabby and Wormwood – he knew) close to her chest, one of the heads underneath her chin and he reached out slowly and brushed his fingers slowly over her head. He had dried it with a spell and it was wavier than usual. Pretty, really.
He stifled a yawn himself and was almost tempted to enlarge her bed and slip in next to her, take a nap himself before dinner – but he would have to let Mary Kelly know that they were back – and maybe work on the base again. The base of the potion. The crux of the matter, really. It always destroyed the entire potion. Too strong. Again – a yawn and he got up heavily, almost stumbling over the tortoise (and he cursed the animal for the first time) and made his way down his apothecary after leaving Ophelia his Patronus. He would keep it closed – but he had to get the potion right. And soon.
xx
"I'll owl him," Hermione declared. "He has to come here and we have to tell him. What he tells his mother then is his problem. Not mine," she added and cautiously, summoned a bit of paper and a pen. She was living in a Muggle household. She would not use parchment and quill (just as Hugo had not used parchment but paper).
"Hermione, this is all new, what if he comes straight over?" Judith Granger cautioned.
"Let him," she shrugged and put the paper down on the table, "I put a note to Hugo's birthday card for Ophelia, inviting them for a birthday dinner for her tonight."
She had done it, yes. Defiantly. And well, he wouldn't say yes in any case. He wanted his girl for himself on that day and she understood that. But he would hopefully understand that she and her family really wanted to see him and his daughter. And it had been a only a post-it, really. A sticky note on the back of his birthday card. He would probably understand that. And she hoped that he would agree.
Especially since – well, he would not be prejudiced, she knew. He had said nothing about not letting Ophelia play with her son, even if he was a squib. He had not said anything – had just explained that he didn't want Hugo with him on her birthday. Nothing else. He had not even pulled a face. Nothing.
And besides, she knew it was a crackpot idea, but if Snape was there when Ron arrived – no. She could not pretend that Snape and her were an item. That was just idiotic and Snape would never agree to it.
Stupid idea.
She heard her parents talking but could not make out the words. And they weren't important and the moment. She had to write the note. She had to get this over quickly. Had to tell Ron and once that was done, she could get to work on the legislative proposal for the Department of Legislative Proposals. From there, and she knew Bill there who would probably speed up the process, it would go to the Wizengamot. And from there – it was hope and pray. Still, if she wrote it correctly, and in a nice, pro-wizard-manner, she could probably get it through.
But first, she had to make sure that her own children could stay – it was especially important for Hugo now. In the Wizarding World he would be an outcast – here, in this world – he was perfectly normal.
And that was not a fate – being an outcast – she wanted for her son.
She looked up determined at her parents – and set pen to paper.
xx
"Daddy?" Ophelia rubbed her eyes and the first thing she saw when she looked up was Skippy, perching on her stomach, looking at her with her shifty eyes – her shell a bright, happy blue. "Hullo Skippy," she smiled. "I was so tired after swimming. It's really exhausting. The turtle – tortoise – seemed to nod a little in the direction of the foot of the bed and she discovered Daddy's horse standing there. It magicked a grin on her face – it always did and Skippy's shell turned rainbow-coloured again.
"Is Daddy in the apothecary?" it asked the horse.
"Ophelia, I'm in the apothecary. Please come down when you're up but be careful down the stairs. And leave the tortoise up there, we'll only stumble over it. If you're hungry or thirsty, there's a sandwich and a glass of pumpkin juice on the table in the kitchen."
She nodded and looked pityingly at her pet. "Daddy doesn't want you down there," she explained slowly, "because it might be dangerous for you."
She set Skippy carefully on the ground, jumped over it – and straight through the horse (she loved doing that! It was always so nicely chilly and tingly) and bounced into the kitchen and there really was a large glass of pumpkin juice, cold, just the way she liked it, and she took a large bite out of the sandwich. Egg and cress. Just as she liked it. What a wonderful birthday, she thought again and smiled. Daddy knew how much she liked egg and cress sandwiches with pumpkin juice and he let her have it. It just stood there.
And Skippy had apparently followed her into the kitchen and made shuffling noises on the floor and she smiled at her pet. She was gorgeous and wonderful and pretty! Very pretty with her blue shell again. Blue. Mh. She would have to think about it but her thoughts were interrupted by a strange noise at the window. Ophelia looked up, surprised and saw an owl perching on the window sill.
There was – as far as she remembered and knew – no rule about owls. They never really got owls up here, only ever Daddy, down in the apothecary. There were absolutely no rules. She had even been allowed to untie scrolls sometimes when Daddy was there with her but Daddy wasn't here now. And he would probably be happy if she brought him the letter downstairs. He wouldn't have to interrupt his work for the owl and Daddy hated being interrupted. Especially now when he was working on Mary's potion. And she knew how important Mary's potion was for Daddy.
Because Daddy liked Mary – only, he never said so. But Ophelia thought that maybe, since she already thought of Mary as sort of her grandmother, albeit not her real grandmother, that maybe Daddy thought of Mary as a sort of aunt. Or maybe even aunt. He always looked at her so worriedly. And he worked so hard on that potion. Sometimes, he talked a little about it in his sleep. But she would never tell him that – he might just forbid her to sleep in his bed.
And sometimes, in his sleep, he told her that he loved her. Which was really amazingly cool. And sometimes, he spoke of someone called the Dark Lord and someone called Albus. But she didn't know who he meant and she was mostly too tired herself to pay attention.
So, no rules about owls. And she knew all the rules he had set. Ophelia shrugged to herself – and to Skippy and opened the window slowly, to let the large owl inside.
It swooped in – and as she had learned from Daddy, she first fed it a bit of her sandwich and then untied the rectangular envelope from its leg. Then fed it some more sandwich and it was off again. That had been – quite unspectacular. But there was a huge flower painted on the front and in large letters, which she traced with her fingers, was OPHELIA SNAPE written on it.
She had gotten a letter?
A letter for her?
OPHELIA SNAPE
That was her.
"Skippy, look," she gushed, "I got a letter!" She smiled and ripped the envelope open, so excited that she forgot to tell Daddy – and that was saying something.
No, she pulled whatever was inside out, so excited, wonderful, giddy and, slowly, with the help of her fingers, she read the crooked letters.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, OPHELIA FROM HUGO
Hugo! Hugo had send her a letter! Her friend Hugo had written to her. A letter for her birthday. This day was getting better and better. Skippy, swimming and a letter of her own. Her first own letter!
Wow.
She laughed and grinned and smiled at the card and whooped a little and even though Skippy looked at her puzzled, she sat down on the floor and showed her tortoise what she had just received. "Look, Skippy, it's a letter from Hugo. Hugo is my friend. And he's written to me. For my birthday."
But then, she noticed, on the back of the card, a very yellow bit of paper and turned it around, and since she was already sitting on the floor, she carefully put the card down and and, again, slowly but surely, began to read what stood there. It was difficult. Very, very difficult.
But Ophelia Snape was determined. Very, very determined.
xx
He had it. He just had the base. It was perfect. The right amount of St-John's-wort. Just perfect. Adding the orange peel in a moment, then let it simmer for four hours. Maybe five. And the rest in, maturing for a day – and it would be done. He was sure of it. It would free Mary Kelly and he breathed a sigh of relief. A wonderful mushy-pea colour. Perfect.
He let his head fall back into his neck and breathed deeply. This would help her definitely. And it would definitely earn him a lot of money.
He smirked. Perfect. Just perfect.
The usual joy he had always felt when he had successfully created a potion was still there and though he had to admit that it paled in comparison to the joy he had felt earlier, with his little witch, it was still great. And this day – what a wonderful day! Ophelia so happy and splashing around him and he – creating this potion. A milestone, really. It would not only help those addicted to alcohol, but all the other addicts. Nicotine, Muggle drugs, any other form of addiction. He rubbed his neck when he heard the stomping steps of his little witch on the stairs.
It had been the right decision not to take a nap with her – and he would make it up to her. Or to himself. He wasn't sure which any more.
She stomped down the stairs and he had to turn around and a huge grin was plastered on her face.
"Sleep well?" he asked gently.
She nodded and in a moment, she was in front of him and pushed a bit of paper in his hands. "Look, Daddy," she said and was still grinning.
He raised his eyebrows and looked at the paper. HAPPY BIRTHDAY OPHELIA FROM HUGO
A birthday card. There was something drawn on it and despite all his good efforts, he could not even usually see what his own little witch drew and well, it wasn't any different with the little Weasley. There was a sun. That much he saw. The rest – might as well have been – anything.
He looked at his daughter. "Where did you get that?" he asked suddenly, suspiciously.
"An owl brought it," she explained happily.
"You let an owl into the flat? Are you completely insane now?" he thundered and turned the card around in his fingers.
"But, Daddy..." her lower lip began to tremble. "You gave me no rule about owls and I thought..."
He raised his hand and noticed the yellow sticky note stuck on the back of the piece of paper.
Please consider coming to dinner tonight. Hugo will be happy and we'll make a nice birthday feast for your daughter.
Best wishes and Happy Birthday to Ophelia,
Hermione Granger.
"Can we go?" Ophelia asked in a tiny voice and he only looked at her – and knew that his eyes were hard.
Didn't she know how dangerous a single owl could be? What a single letter could contain? That it could kill her?
xx
Hermione looked utterly worried and Jonathan Granger knew that she wanted the topic off the table. He knew that Hugo being a non-magic person wasn't that horrible. In fact, it wouldn't change anything. He was four. By the time he would have been ready to go to Hogwarts, he would be so completely immersed in their world, that he wouldn't probably want to imagine anything else. Besides, he would make sure that Hugo had as many chances to play in the dentistry as he could get. Or would have any other chances.
If he knew his wife correctly, and himself, there would still be brochures and information leaflets about all kinds of schools that they had considered sending Hermione to. Before they had learned about her being a witch.
Only, he knew it worried his girl – she was afraid of what would happen once she had told her ex-husband.
Ronald was – impulsive in matters like this. Still, it didn't help her (or his wife who had gone out into the garden to play with the children to stop waiting for Ronald – or an owl from Ronald) to just sit and wait and as he sat across from her on the table, he tried to smile at her, but she merely stared into her mug of cold tea.
"It never is as bad as you imagine it will be," he said gently and pried her fingers away from the mug and held her hand in his.
"I know," she tried a weak smile. "But he will blame me and he will – oh I can't even imagine what..."
There was suddenly a pop and both Hermione and John jumped a little.
"What's wrong now?" Ronald Weasley suddenly stood in the middle of their kitchen.
"Ronald, hello," he said and wanted to say more but was interrupted. His Hermione had gotten up, her eyes wild, as they always were when she was angry and she gleamed at her ex.
"Have you lost any kind of decency?" she shrieked. "Apparating in the middle of a kitchen? What were you thinking?"
"Emergency, as you wrote," he spat. "Here," he shoved the letter she had written earlier back at her. "What's the emergency?"
"Won't you sit down and have a cup of tea?" John tried to soothe.
"No, I want to know what the emergency is," he said coldly. "I was at work, Hermione and get an owl that there's something and you have to talk to me as soon as possible."
"You could have just apparated to the front door. But no – Ronald Weasley – like a sledgehammer in the middle of the kitchen," she spat back.
"If you thought there was an emergency, you would apparated straight into the kitchen of my parents," he argued.
"I can't. There are still anti-apparition wards around the Burrow," she argued.
"Will you tell me now?"
xx
"No, Ophelia, we cannot go and you will kindly explain what gave you the idea to simply let an owl in," Severus said quietly – in a voice he had not used in years. The teacher voice and Ophelia shrunk a little back – but only a little. A bit and for a moment, she seemed to think.
"You said nothing about owls, Daddy," she argued. "If you had said not to let owls in, I wouldn't have."
He sighed. No, of course he had not said anything. But why didn't she see that it was dangerous – oh.
Maybe, maybe because he had not been honest yet. Maybe because he had not explained yet that they lived in a not so nice area and that he was, well, not that well-liked. He would have to sit down with her – in peace and quiet and would have to explain that. No strange owls in the flat, not opening letter he had not seen first. The things people could put into letters – and it was well-known that she had a daughter now and that was his weak spot. Of course it was. He loved the girl and that was always a weakness.
Still – maybe he had been overreacting. No death-threat in the last three years after all.
"Can we go to Hugo? Only for a bit," she tugged on his sleeve.
"No, Ophelia," he shook his head, trying to calm himself. She was, after all, save and healthy and nothing had happened.
"But Daddy, please," she looked at him with those puppy-dog-eyes and found that, for the first time, he was resistant to them. Success. Finally.
"No," he shook his head again. "We'll have dinner and then you have to go to bed early. It's been a tiring day."
"I just slept," she argued and her eyes grew fierce and darker and she still held on tightly to him. "Just play with Hugo for a bit."
"No," he said sternly – again – and suddenly, there was darkness and a tug at the navel and spinning and he couldn't close his mouth and no – this wasn't happening. This wasn't true.
xx
"Hugo's a Squib," she said calmly, waiting for his reaction after having sat down again. It was no use shouting at him.
"Nice joke, Hermione," he spat.
"No joke," she shrugged. She had known it would be like this and the next hour or so would be spent arguing about whether she was joking or not. She should have made a copy of the file. A simple copy of the file.
"My son is not a Squib," he shook his head. "It can't be. There's only one Squib in my entire family and you're a powerful Muggleborn. That makes no Squibs."
She rolled his eyes. "Hugo is no Squib then. Let's just call him Muggle. It's much politer anyway."
Her father had left the kitchen some time during the argument and she felt that she needed him now. Still – it was a thing between him and her. Yet, she looked outside into the garden and had to smile a little. Her children playing tag with her parents. All four of them together.
"You're insane, Hermione," he followed her glance. "This has something to do with the fact that I want the children to live with me and Henrietta."
She shook her head. "No. If you don't believe me, just look in the file in the Registration Office. It's in black and white there."
"This has something to do with him," she cried suddenly, pointing outside.
She looked into the garden again and her eyes widened.
xx
She had never done that before but it was cool. And so much better than being in Daddy's arms when they went somewhere. No, and it was simple. She had just imagined Hugo's house and how much she wanted to be there and – then there was blackness and a tug in her stomach and suddenly, her and Daddy were in their garden and Hugo and his sister and Hugo's grandma and grandpa were running around them.
She looked carefully up in Daddy's face – he would be angry. But, no. His eyes were not angry. His mouth – yes. But that never counted. It was always the eyes that counted. And the eyes were shining with something.
And Hugo stared and Hugo's sister stared and Hugo's grandpa and Hugo's grandma stared. And she only smiled.
"Hullo Hugo," she said, "thank you for the letter."
Thank you!