The bath had cost him nerves – and probably the girl as well. For once, she seemed quite scared of the wand, and then, she seemed shy but that was to be expected.

The worst thing, however, was himself. Looking at it objectively – he had been clumsy at best – irresponsible at worst. She had shrunk back from him, had looked longingly at her hellhound, had curled herself together as best as she could in the hot water. And he had thrown the soap in the water and had left with a 'see that you're clean' spat at her.

But really – how had he expected to wash her anyway? He had not only never done it before – wash someone else that is – but also, he had never even thought about it.

True, he hadn't even thought about ever having to take care of the girl by himself – he had, of course, accepted atherhood and he had paid a not so small amount of money to her mother but to have the girl living with him? No, he had not expected that. And if he had known, he would have called the muggle DNA-test (he had read up on it – utter rot) the rubbish that it was – would have challenged it, would not have paid, and would have been out on this entire thing. But being as it was – he had accepted it. He had signed papers, was registered in the muggle papers as the child's father and since her mother did not have any other relatives (or those could not be found) – she was his now.

What was the alternative? An orphanage? No. Even though he did not know if she was a witch or not, orphanages were evil. Orphanages were where they bred dark wizards. In his opinion. And he did not want this for someone of his blood.

Still – she had not talked for the rest of the day. She hadn't eaten much either but at least she was clean and she had even, somehow, managed to wash her hair.

He snorted in his bed – late that night – and stopped wondering why she was so self-sufficient. He had not offered any help in any way. She had to be. She had to do things on her own.

Severus Snape sighed and leaned back into his pillow, thinking.

He did not know much, almost nothing, about her life before she had come to live with him. He, of course, knew who her mother was, knew about her work, knew about the life she had led, but truly, the money he made Gringotts transfer to her account every month should have been enough for the girl and even for her. He didn't know how much time she had spent with the child – how much care she got but the Muggle at the office had said that she had been with an acquaintance (female) of her mother and they had not been able to locate any of her things. He had transfigured a pair of his robes – but he had misjudged her size and they had been a little too small and he wasn't sure how well his sizing charms worked. Stupid Wandwaving. He would have to take her to Madame Irving down the Alley, buy her a few clothes. Something decent to wear when she insisted on sitting in his shop all day long, staring into nothingness.

A stuffed animal, and that had been all it had taken to make her eyes shine happily and gratefully – and, of course she held on tightly to it the rest of the day – pressed against her chest, one head of the hellhound against the left side of her neck – the two others against the right side. And she had smiled up at him – had said her thank you this way.

It had been – so strange to see her smile.

Especially since he knew that his smile was similar. Or had been. He couldn't remember what it looked like exactly.

He noxed all the lights and pulled the covers almost over his head.

Being a father was – confusing.

xx

"What did she say?" Jonathan Granger asked his wife who, by now, sat in front of her mirror, brushing out her unruly curls.

"Not much," Judith sighed. "She feels guilty, naturally, and sad. Doesn't know yet what to do."

"Did you tell her she can stay as long as she wants?" he asked, closing the last button on his blue-and-white-striped pyjamas and got into bed, waiting for his wife as he did every night – as he had done every night for the last 34 years. Well – almost every night anyway.

"Of course I did," she looked at him through the mirror – and send him an admonishing glare. "But you know Hermione. She will probably be out and about looking for a flat by tomorrow."

"Don't let her," he shook his head. "It's too fresh and Hugo and Rosie will be even more confused."

"According to Hermione, Rose knows they're getting a divorce."

"That fast?" he asked, pulling a book from his bedside cabinet on his lap but didn't open it yet. "Aren't there rules about getting a divorce?"

Judith shrugged. "You know that many things are different when it comes to witches and wizards."

He sighed. "Of course I do. But divorces, marriages? There should be a time between deciding to separate and actual divorce."

She shrugged again. "I don't know if there is. She only said that she will send an owl in the morning."

"Poor girl," he muttered and opened the book. A heavy tome – and quite boring. The right read to go to sleep to. Especially after a taxing day like this.

Judith chuckled and pulled off her robe – putting it carefully at the foot of the bed. "She's not your little girl any more, John," she said gently and got into bed as well. "She's over thirty. She has two children."

"What do we do?" he changed the topic. "Do we have a plan?"

"I don't honestly know. I want her to feel better but those things take time."

Jonathan rolled his eyes. "You should know."

"Yes, took me years to get over a certain brown-haired, brown-eyed, tall, handsome student at University."

He chuckled and leant over to kiss her cheek. "Thank God you never had to."

xx

Hermione watched her children sleep. Really, she was bone-tired but probably beyond sleeping – too tired to sleep, too tired to get some serious work done, to look for flats, to probably even find another job. Working at the Ministry? Well, she had, sometimes, worked together quite closely with Aurors, even though her work was strictly theoretical. She did research, she worked on cases after they had been brought in by Aurors. And direct contact? Rare – but happening.

And the thought alone to eventually have to question Ron about one thing or another gave her the shivers. She didn't want that. A clean cut. To being able to one day – eventually – getting along with him again. And of course he would see his children. Only – he had made it clear, right from the start, when she had told him that she wanted to go, wanted to separate, a divorce, that he could not possibly take them. Too much time spent in the field – but he'd like at least every other weekend, if not every single one. Depending on his schedule. And she, no she did not mind at all. Just because she didn't love him any more did not mean that the children shouldn't. Or that they would have to suffer even more.

She sighed softly and snuggled deeper into the chair her parents had put into the guest room – where the children usually slept in. She had breastfed both Hugo and Rose in that chair – and she had watched them going to sleep there. Sometimes.

Ron had preferred the Burrow – he had once admitted that he was rather uncomfortable with the Muggle-things that were so normal to her and also with her parents and he only rarely went with her to her parents. Only on birthdays and such.

"Mummy?" Hugo was standing in front of her, his little arms stretched towards her.

"Hugo," she smiled and picked him up and settled him on her lap, accioing a blanket to cover them both.

"Why's daddy never come with us here?" he asked suddenly and snuggled to her. She tightened her hold on him – holding him to her, feeling that little body breathing evenly.

"Daddy's busy at work," she explained and he seemed to accept that fact, nodded and buried his face in her chest.

She smiled – if all failed – she still had those wonderful, lovely children.

xx

He sat bolt upright. She was screaming. Or crying. Or both.

How could he have been so stupid to think that she was getting through this with only silence and a smile when she got her stuffed hellhound?

A moment later, she stopped – mid-scream and he knew, in that moment he knew, that she was a witch. Silencing Charms on himself had been a speciality of his in his own childhood. Anything not to provoke his father when he had stumbled home in a stupor. Anything. And putting up those Silencing Charms had been simple – after a while.

He wasn't sure – once again – what to do. There was nothing he could fall back on. He couldn't remember what his mother had done (and since he didn't want to be like his father, he would certainly not do as he had done – all those years ago) in those situations. Maybe nothing. Or maybe she had consoled him. Or maybe he had been quicker with the Silencing Charms and she had not heard him.

Still – he could not let her scream in, what? Agony? Fear? Pain? He would just sit with her until she had fallen asleep. Cancel the Charm, maybe. Even if it was loud.

He swung his feet over the edge of the bed and sighed – and froze.

xx

Bad dream. A room full of shelves and those weird things that sir always stored in them and her mother came towards her.

And told her that she would live with her father now. And call him father. Otherwise she would have to go live with Madame Sylvie again and she did not want that. And then Madame Sylvie and Mummy came towards her and pointed and the shelves fell onto the chair she was sitting on and she screamed and then she screamed some more – she didn't want to go back to Madame Sylvie and Mummy and then sir came with the stick and she lay half under the shelf and he came and she still screamed and her leg hurt somehow and then he wriggled that stick in his hand and picked her up and gave her the cuddly animal and she hugged it and sir and she knew that she could stop screaming now somehow and make sir – father – not wake up – and suddenly, she stopped but her mouth was still wide open but at least Fluffy and Cabby and Wormwood were there and her throat hurt now.

And suddenly – she woke up and she could feel that she was breathing very hard, but she did not hear herself. But she wanted to.

Then she could.

But the room was dark and there were shelves and she did not dare to look under her bed – because there might be Madame Sylvie underneath it or maybe that woman who came every morning and was so smelly and sir – father – always just made the little bottle fly towards her because he probably thought that she smelled too and was dangerous and scary and as quickly as she could, she ran from the room, the three-headed dog (Fluffy and Cabby and Wormwood) pressed to her chest.

Sirfather had shown her his room when she had arrived and his door was open a bit.

Madame Sylvie could not get to her when she was with Sirfather. He had always made sure that she was okay and that she could bathe and had a bed (even though Madame Sylvie was under it now) and had given her the dog. Fluffy and Cabby and Wormwood.

She pushed the door open – quickly and saw him sitting there. And he looked at her. But not with that scary expression. But differently. Somehow.

She just ran to him. Just did. He had picked her up. Had let her wrap herself around himself and had not pushed her away, had not looked at her weirdly. Had held her. And had given her the cuddly.

Somehow, she didn't know how, maybe she had such a stick as well, somehow, in her finger, she landed on his lap and in his arms and pressed herself against him.

And Ophelia knew that Madame Sylvie and those staring people, those smelly people, and the people in the weird clothes could not get to her. Sirfather would protect her.

xx

She was a witch. And a remarkable one at that. Making herself fly into him from such a distance was a feat – and only manageable when in great fear.

"Ophelia scared," she whispered into his chest, clung to him and that – that felt even odder than her smile.

xx